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LISLE  SMITH,  GEORGE  DAVIS,  Dr.  PHILIP  MAXWELL, 

j.  BROWN,  RICHARD  L.  WILSON,  Col.  LEWIS  C.  KERCHIVAL, 

HENRY  B.  CLARKE,  Sheriff  SAMUEL  J.  LOWE. 


H P.  HARRIS, 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2015 


https://archive.org/details/biographicalsket1876bush 


Biographical  Sketches 


OF  SOME  OF  THE 


EARLY  SETTLERS 

OF  THE 

CITY  OF  CHICAGO. 


PART  I. 


S.  LISLE  SMITH, 

Dr.  PHILIP  MAXWELL, 
RICHARD  L.  WILSON, 
URIAH  P.  HARRIS, 

SAMUEL 


GEORGE  DAVIS, 

JOHN  J.  BROWN, 

Col.  LEWIS  C.  KERCHIVAL 
HENRY  J.  CLARKE, 

J.  LOWE. 


CHICAGO : 

FERGUS  PRINTING  COMPANY, 
244-8  Illinois  Street, 

1876. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1876,  by 
Fergus  Printing  Company, 

I n the  office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 


INTRODUCTION. 


f. 


The  following  pages  are  intended  merely  as  sketches  of 
character — not  labored  biographies.  In  the  inception,  the 
object  was  simply  to  prepare  a few  newspaper  articles,  to 
be  read  and  thrown  aside,  as  other  ephemeral  literature. 
But  partial,  very  likely  over-partial,  friends,  who  saw  the 
earlier  manuscripts,  believed  them  worthy  of  a better  fate — 
believed  them  (how  could  I question  the  verdict?)  to  be 
recollections  of  the  fast-growing  dim  past,  that  should  be 
garnered,  and  would  be  cordially  received  and  valued  by 
the  olden-time  citizens  of  Chicago.  This  being  the  case, 
and  my  friend  of  “auld  lang  syne”,  Mr.  Robert  Fergus, 
having  determined  to  give  them  the  dignity  of  a book,  no 
one  can  regret  more  sincerely  than  the  writer  that  greater 
care  was  not  taken  in  the  preparation — that  they  were  not 
given  more  at  length — that  more  of  birth  and  family  had 
not  been  gathered.  That  would  have  made  them  interest- 
ing— to  their  descendants. 

The  general  public,  however,  may  fancy  them  as  well  in 
the  present  form.  They,  at  least,  care  little  or  nothing 
where  the  accident  of  birth  occurred,  or  whether  the  name 
of  the  father  was  John  or  Jehosaphat,  and  that  of  the 
mother  Mary  or  Jerusha!  They  simply  require  a mental 
photograph  of  those  who  walked  the  streets  when  Chicago 
was  a terra  incognita , — who  filled  the  places  they  now  fill, 
— who  passed  through  the  same  trials  and  had  the  same 
hopes  and  fears — the  same  clothing  and  passions  of  mor- 
tality. Birth  or  nation,  we  take  it,  has  little  to  do  with 
how  each  “acts  his  part.”  It  is  the  man  only  that  sur- 
vives—save  with  the  loving  hearts  of  kindred. 

Of  the  knowledge  of  what  I have  feebly  attempted,  I 
was  part  of  all.  Though  not  among  the  earliest,  yet  I 
was  an  early  citizen  of  the  now  famous  “Garden  City,” 
and  my  business  was  such  as  to  throw  me  into  intimate 
association  with  all  classes,  more  than  was  generally  the 
case,  and  the  lines  written  upon  the  memory  of  the  boy 
have  not  been  obliterated  from  that  of  the  gray-headed 
man  any  more  than  the  city  can  be  blotted  from  the  map 
of  the  world,— such  a thing  could  never  be.  Love  for 


p o r'  n o r\ 
G & & . - O ij 


INTRODUCTION. 


those  still  living,  and  graves  (may  they  be  ever  green  ones) 
by  the  lake  side  forbid  such  a thing. 

Of  my  ability  to  do  justice  to  those  who  “have  gone 
on  before,”  I feel  its  want  to  the  extreme,  and,  had  I 
known  what  was  to  follow,  would  have-  burned  the  first 
pages  of  manuscript  and  shrank  from  the  task, — what  it 
was  I realized  too  late.  But  one  thing  I do  know — • 
nothing  untruthful,  no  single  word  of  bitterness  (no  matter 
what  might  have  occurred  in  other  days,  when  hearts  beat 
high  and  passions  ran  strong,)  has  been  permitted  to  be 
here  set  down.  Indeed,  I can  say — and  that  with  my 
hand  upon  my  heart — that  nothing  of  the  kind  remains. 
Looking  backward,  one  almost  shudders  as  he  learns  that 
what  he  considered  the  fault  of  another  was  his  own,  and 
the  blame  rests  upon  his  shoulders  alone ! 

Chicago,  it  must  be  remembered,  was  a very  different 
affair  thirty  and  forty  years  ago  from  what  it  is  now.  Then 
everybody  knew  everybody,  as  in  village  society.  Conse- 
quently, one  could  not  but  be  familiar  with  the  men  who 
stood , the  highest  in  the  community — with  their  acts  as 
their  faces — could  not  but  be  interwoven  with  them  in 
daily  life — could  not  but  have  stamped  upon  memory  their 
individuality.  Then,  there  were  comparatively  few  who 
marked  themselves  above  their  fellows,  and  to  forget  them 
would  be  to  forget,  almost,  one’s  self — and  writing  of  them 
is  as  turning  open  the  book  of  your  own  life. 

It  would  be  impossible  for  any  to  write  of  so  long  ago 
without  having  their  statements  questioned,  and  I do  not 
expect  to  escape.  Human  memory  at  best  is  treacherous, 
and  the  same  witnesses  often  look  at  the  same  transaction 
from  a different  standpoint.  To  anyone  in  the  least  familiar 
with  courts  of  justice  this  explanation  will  be  sufficient. 
To  any  others  who  may  quibble,  I can  say,  in  all  honesty, 
that  any  statement  of  fact  made  in  these  pages  is  a fact 
“according  to  the  best  of  my  information  and  belief,”  and 
that  we  may  have  looked  at  the  same  object  at  a different 
time  or  from  an  opposite  side. 

As  to  opinions  of  character , they  are  my  own.  Not  a 
single  person  has  made  any  suggestion — not  one  attempted 
the  slightest  influence.  If  I have  erred  in  my  judgment 
of  men,  I am  alone  responsible.  My  study  of  character 
may  be  wrong,  but,  as  I have  judged  others,  I am  willing 
to  be  judged. 


HON.  S.  LISLE  SMITH. 


There  was  no  one  better  known  to  the  “ old  citizens  " 
of  Chicago,  nor  justly  more  famous  for  brilliancy  and 
innate  kindness  of  heart,  than  Samuel  Lisle  Smith — or. 
as  he  was  familiarly  called.  “ Lisle." 

Gifted  by  nature  far  above  the  great  majority  of  his 
fellows,  with  a rare  education,  striking  ideality,  and  love 
and  appreciation  of  the  poetic  and  beautiful,  with  the 
most  retentive  of  memories — one  so  marvelously  perfect 
that  he  could  quote  the  words,  section,  page,  and  book 
of  almost  anything  he  had  ever  read,  and  his  simple  ipse 
dixit  would  be  taken  as  law  in  any  court  in  the  city — a 
natural  as  well  as  finely  cultivated  orator, . he  was,  indeed, 
at  the  head  of  his  compeers  at  least  in  that  respect. 

In  stature,  Mr.  Smith  was  about  medium  size,  with  a 
slightly  florid  complexion,  rather  light  hair,  active  in  his 
movements,  rapid  as  forcible  in  speech,  graceful  in  every 
gesture,  wonderful  in  imagery,  the  very  soul  of  pathos, 
and  could  hold  an  audience  spell-bound  for  any  length 
of  time,  as  was  proven  again  and 'again. 

As  to  his  eloquence,  the  entire  wisdom  and  the  selected 
“ best  speakers  ” of  the  nation  bowed  unanimously  to  it, 
at  the  famous  “ Harbor  and  River  Convention."  Horace 
Greeley  said  he  was  “ the  star  speaker  of  the  vast  assem- 
bly— stood  without  a rival,"  and  the  writer  of  this  has  often 
seen  a letter  from  Henry  Clay,  avowing  that  he  “ was  the 
best  orator  he  had  ever  heard.”  Could  better  testimony 
be  required  to  prove  a fact?  In  short,  Mr.  Smith  stood 
head  and  front  above  all  he  met  at  that  time  (as,  indeed 

f'  c*.  O r\  n p> 

0>  J 


I 


4 


S.  LISLE  SMITH. 


ing — remains  of  his  speeches  save  a glowing,  though  sad,, 
memory.  The  perfume  of  the  rose  lingers  around  the- 
broken  vase,  but,  alasl  that  is  all, 

“Appealing  by  the  magic  of  his  name, 

To  gentle  feelings,  and  affections  kept 
Within  the  heart,  like  gold.” 

Shortly  after  his  death,  his  lifetime  friend,  Richard  L. 
Wilson,  (of  the  Evening  Journal, ) — another  brave  heart 
and  true, — and  others  endeavored  to  obtain  data  for  their 
publication,  but  nothing  could  be  found.  He  never  wrote 
a single  word  even  of  his  greatest  efforts.  It  was  his 
custom,  when  preparing  a speech,  to  walk  up  and  down 
the  shore  of  the  lake,  talking  to  himself-— shaping  the  crude 
material  into  form,  and,  with  the  matter  once  fluxed  in 
the  subtle  crucible  of  his  brain,  it  was  never  forgotten. 

In  political  life,  he  stood  among  the  foremost,  ever  in 
the  van ; though  never  either  asking  or  accepting  an  office 
when  proffered,  while  working  devotedly  for  his  party  and 
his  friends.  Of  this  let  me  give  a single  instance  out  of 
the  multitude,  one  that  will  show  more  clearly  the  man 
than  any  words  of  my  own  could  do.  He  was — could 
not  conceal  the  fact — disappointed  in  the  nomination  of 
General  Taylor,  but  when  the  old  warrior  was  fairly  in 
the  field  for  the  Presidency,  he  threw  all  his  influence  in 
his  favor  and  did  much  towards  securing  Iris  election. 
That  accomplished,  and  the  inauguration  over,  he  visited 
Washington  and  paid  his  respects  to  the  Chief  Magistrate. 
Again  and  again  lie  called,  chatting  interestingly,  'as  he  SO' 
well  could  do.  and  left  without  a word  of  business.  Then 
he  called  yet  once  more,  to  say  farewell,  and  as  he  was 
about  leaving,  the  old  war  horse  .said,  in  his  bluff  and 
hearty  way, 

“Mr.  Smith,  I like  you.” 

“The  admiration  is  more  than  mutual,”  replied  Lisle : 
“but  why,  General?” 

“Because  you  are  very  different  from  anyone  who  has 


S.  LISLE  SMITH.  5 

-called  upon  me.  Everybody  wants  an  office,  and  you  have 
.asked  for  nothing." 

“And  would  not  accept  the  highest  in  your  gift.' 

“But  can  I do  nothing  for  you,  sir?" 

“Nothing  personally,  but,  if  you  please,  General,  it  would 

be  a great  pleasure  to  me  if  you  would  appoint  1 

Post  Master  at  Chicago;"  and  he  eloquently  presented  the 
claims  of  the  candidate. 

Need  I say  the  appointment  was  made? 

Were  space  permitted,  I could  fill  pages  with  such  pleas- 
.ant  memories  of  the  man — memories  that  deserve  to  be 
perpetuated;  but  a brief  notice  is  all  that  is  permitted. 

His  political  speeches  were,  truly,,  a power  in  the  land. 
An,  old-line  Whig  of  , the  strictest  school,  he  loved — wor- 
shipped were,  perhaps,  the  more  fitting  term — “Harry  of 
the  West,"  as  he  delighted  to  call  Clay;  and,  probably,  did 
more  for  his  party  than  any  of  his  time  in  Illinois.  Right 
or  wrong  he  carried  his  hearers  with  him,  and  spent  his 
money  freely  in  the  cause.  So  much  was  he  interested  in 
the  political  struggles  of  the  country  that  he  gave  up  the 
practice  of  his  profession  (law)  at  an  early  day,  though,  had 
he  been  so  disposed,  he  would  have  been  without  a rival  as 
a jury  lawyer — would  have  occupied  the  place  at  the  Chi- 
cago Bar  that  James  T.  Brady  occupied  in  New  York. 

In  social  intercourse,  no  man  was  (or  is)  to  be  found 
who  could  more  charm  or  hold  fast  the  attention.  That 
this  was  the  case,  all  who  ever  shared  his  open-handed 
hospitality,  and  that  of  his  beautiful  and  accomplished  wife, 
will  attest.  His  conversation  was  of  the  character  that 
made  one  a willing  listener,  and  compelled  regret  when  he 
had  finished,  for — 

“On  ever)-  point,  in  earnest  or  in  jest, 

His  judgment,  and  his  prudence,  and  his  wit, 

Were  deemed  the  very  touchstone  and  the  test 
Of  what  was  proper,  graceful,  just,  and  fit." 

This  I saw  proven  again  and  again,  even  among  strangers. 


6 


S.  LISLE  SMITH. 


When  the  first  “Sherman  House”  (created  from  the  “City- 
Hotel”)  was  standing,  Mr.  Smith  entered,  one  evening,  with 
a friend,  and  their  conversation  drifted  upon  the  life  and 
character  of  Henry  Clay.  The  reading-room  was  filled 
with  men  engaged  with  their  own  particular  topics,  but,  as 
lie  enlarged  upon  his  idea,  everyone  became  silent,  and 
remained  so  until  a very  late  hour.  Of  that  night  I have 
a perfectly  distinct  recollection,  and  especially  of  the  con- 
clusion. The  dust  of  the  years  that  have  fallen  have  failed 
to-  dim  its  individuality. 

“I  tell  you,”  said  the  enthusiastic  orator,  “that  Harry 
Clay  will  never  die,  but  will  be  translated,  like  Elijah  of 
old.  When  the  Lord  wants  him,  he  will  send  down  angels 
with  a golden  chariot,  and  one  of  them  will  tell  his  errand. 
‘Wait  a moment,’  will  be  the  courteous  reply,  ‘I  must  bid 
my  wife  farewell.’  Entering  the  house,  he  will  tell  of  the 
kingly  summons,  and  say,  ‘Mary.  I must  go — farewell.  Tell 
everyone  that  the  Union  must  and  shall  be  preserved,’  and 
stepping  into  the  heavenly  car  will  be  borne  aloft  from 
glory  unto  glory!” 

I feel  that  I have  failed  in  giving  the  beauty  of  his 
words — the  sublimity  of  his  imagery, — indeed  I might  as  well 
attempt  to  chain  a sunbeam.  The  hour  and  the  “ man 
eloquent,"  the  burning  eye,  the  wrapt  face,  the  impassioned 
gestures — all  are  wanting — can  never  be  reproduced..  But 
this  may  give  a feeble  conception  of  the  reality. 

I think  I am  perfectly  safe  in  asserting  that  Lisle  Smith 
never  had  an  enemy,  even  though  far  from  faultless.  But 
his  errors  never  injured  others.  He  was  loved  by  the  high 
and  low,  and  the  cold-blooded,  cynical,  and  fault-finding 
dared  not  deny  his  greatness  as  an  orator  and  his  large- 
hearted  and  sympathetic  liberality  as  a man.  At  his  death 
one  of  the  old  and  most  striking  landmarks  was  blotted 
out.  He  was  a member  of  the  “Old  Settlers’ ” and  many 
other  societies,  and  was  universally  regretted.  As  far  as  I 
know  his  place  has  never  been  filled,  and  he  who  is  worthy 


S.  LISLE  SMITH.  7 

to  step  in  his  shoes  will,  indeed,  have  a proud  record.  Ah! 
how  many  hearts  beat  sadly  as  the  bell  tolled  for  him,  and 
how  many  trembling  lips  whispered,  “Brave  heart,  true 
friend,  hail  and  farewell.” 


GEORGE  DAVIS. 


The  musical  population  of  Chicago — id  est,  old  Chicago 
— will  remember,  with  feelings  of  pleasure  as  well  as  regret, 
the  man  whose  name  stands  at  the  head  of  this  brief 
biography. 

Though  English  by  the  accident  of  birth,  Mr.  Davis 
came  early  to  this  country — was  a thorough  and  patriotic 
American  at  heart,  and  his  popularity  enabled  him  to  secure 
and  long  retain  the  office  of  County  Clerk. 

A “fellow  of  infinite  jest,”  with  a kind  word  and  smile 
for  everyone  who  approached  him,  he  had  troops  of  friends, 
who  remained  firm  until  the  very  last,  and  sorrowed  truly 
when  death  called  him  hence; — but  it  could  not  have  been 
to  the  land  of  silence,  for  from  the  choir  of  earth  he  must 
have  been  welcomed  by  the  sweet  singers  above. 

Mr.  Davis  was  the  prime  mover  in  all  charitable  con- 
certs, as  he  was  the  most  noted  leader  of  his  time  in  the 
Episcopal  Church  (first  Saint  James’,  and,  subsequently, 
Trinity),  of  which  he  was  a' member,  and  no  entertainment 
of  which  vocal  music  was  a part  was  complete  without 
him.  Though  gifted  with  uncommon  powers  in  rendering 
the  plaintive  (who  does  not  remember  the  “Surf”?  and 
how  he  would  have  given  expression  to  “Annie  Laurie”!) 
yet  it  was  in  the  grotesque— the  serio-comic — the  broadly 
humorous — that  his  rare  mimicry  could  best  be  brought 


8 


GEORGE  DAVIS. 


into  play,  and  his  facial  expression  used  — that  he  most  ex- 
celled, and  will,  perhaps,  be  the  best  remembered.  There 
he  stood,  without  a rival — if,  indeed,  any  could  be  found 
in  the  “Garden  City”  at  the  present  time. 

Of  this,  1 need  but  mention  “ The  Great  Mogul" — sung 
as  it  was  by  him — acted  as  it  was  by  him — I think  it  has 
never  been  equalled  upon  the  stage,  and  certainly  not 
surpassed.  ( )f  course,  there  were  many  others,  the  words 
of  which  he  himself  set  to  music,  that  ever  caused  laughter, 
and  never  failed  to  “bring  down  the  house,”  but  the  song 
J have  mentioned  was  the  most  riotous  in  expression, 
although 

“A  merrier  man, 

Within  the  limits  of  becoming  mirth, 

I never  spent  an  hour’s  talk  withal.” 

( )f  the  power  exercised  by  his  singing,  I mention  one 
striking  instance,  showing,  as  it  does,  not  alone  the  charm 
of  a rich  and  cultivated  voice,  but  the  respect  and  love 
in  which  he  was  held  by  the  citizens — one  so  great  as  to 
subdue  even  the  wild  waves  of  land  speculation  and  ever- 
grasping  avarice — to  make  the  might  of  Orpheus  no  fable 
and  the  lures  of  the  Sirens  no  myth. 

At  the  time  of  the  sale  of  Canal  lands  and  lots  in  Sep- 
tember, 1848,  Mr.  Davis  lived  upon  Canal  Street,  between 
Randolph  and  Madison,  holding  a quasi  preemption  upon 
the  lot  on  which  his  house  was  budded.  The  property 
was  even  then  valuable,  though  the  fabulous  prices  at  which 
it  has  since  been  sold  were  never  dreamed  of,  and  many 
ivere  anxious  to  purchase.  The  adjoining  property  had 
been  disposed  of  at  an  extreme  figure,  and  when  the  auc- 
tioneer (James  A.  Marshall)  put  up  that  particular  lot, 
“George”  trembled,  for  fear  it  would  be  run  up  beyond 
his  ability  to  purchase.  It  was  well  known  that  he  was 
not  the  possessor  of  a very  bountiful  supply  of  this  world’s 
goods  (so  liberal,  so  open-handed  and  open-hearted  a man 
never  could  be),  and  he  whispered  his  trouble  to  some  of 


GEORGE  DAVIS. 


9 


his  friends,  and  it  instantly  became  known  to  the  crowd, 
whose  sympathy  was  not  slow  in  being  aroused.  His  bid 
(the  valuation)  was  made  and  then  a song  was  called  for, 
and,  mounting  upon  the  top  of  an  omnibus,  he  sang  as, 
perhaps,  he  never  did  before,  or  after,  in  his  life — sang 
with  his  whole  heart,  and  eyes  misty  with  gratitude.  There 
was  no  bid  against  him — music  carried  the  day,  and,  though 
David  Leavitt  (the  President  of  the  Canal  Board)  fumed, 
he  was  powerless  to  stem  the  tide  of  popular  feeling,  and 
was  forced  to  see  a valuable  lot  sacrificed  for  a merely 
nominal  sum — in  fact,  sold  for  a song! 

It  may  be  urged  that  Chicago  was  young  at  that  time 
— the  people  uncultivated,  and  not  competent  judges  ot 
music;  but  those  who  assert  such  a thing  know  little  of 
what  the}'  are  talking  about,  and  are  overwise  in  their  own 
conceit.  Ask  anyone  who  lived  then  and  is  living  now, 
and  he  will  tell  you  that  the  amateur  concerts  of  those  days 
shame  many  of  the  professionals  now that  Mrs.  Harring- 
ton, Mrs.  Dr.  J.  Jay  Stuart,  Henry  Tucker,  George  Davis, 
“the  sweet  girl  singer  of  St.  James’,”  and  others, * have  never 
been  surpassed  for  purity  of  voices  and  skill  of  execution. 
Ah ! what  a bright  galaxy  have  passed  away,  and  what  an 
addition  »has  been  made  to  that  matchless  choir  “whose 
strains  are  immortal  and  whose  vibrations  are  eternal.” 

Mr.  Davis  was  essentially  a social  man,  and  one  whose 
presence  was  ever  felt,  or  missed.  This  was  owing  to  his 
genial  face,  his  ever-bubbling  wit,  and  suave  manners,  hs 
much  as  to  his  great  musical  ability,  liberal  charities,  and 
warm  friendship.  No  sorrow  or  want  ever  appealed  to  him 
in  vain,  and  if  it  was  little  he  could  bestow,  that  little 
seemed  to  carry  with  it  a blessing  and  a benediction.  With 
his  leaving  Chicago  (to  settle  in  Detroit)  one  of  the  olden 
links  was  broken — one  of  the  most  familiar  of  the  old  faces 

* Wm.  M.  Larrabee,  Moss  Botsford,  Charles  Collier,  Augustus  H. 
Burley,  and  Charles  Burley. 


IO 


GEORGE  DAVIS. 


gone;  but  those  who  remember  the  little,  two-story  brick 
building  that  stood  upon  the  North-East  corner  of  the 
Public  Square,  and  was  dignified  with  the  title  of  “Court 
House,'’  will  rarely  think  of  it  without  associating  him  with 
it — forming,  as  he  did,  the  attraction  for  so  many  years. 

Mr.  Davis  was,  in  the  strongest  meaning  of  the  term,  a 
friend;  and,  as  far  as  my  recollection  serves,  never  had  an 
enemy — save  such  as  might  have  grown  up  from  his  fer- 
vent espousal  of  the  case  of  the  Rev.  William  F.  Walker, 
in  the  then  celebrated  church  trial,  and  of  which  it  may  be 
said,  en  passant , was  bitter  in  the  extreme, — long.-contin- 
ued  — argued  with  great  eloquence,  but  which  left  a bale- 
ful shadow  over  the  congregation  for  a long  time." 

He  was  of  fine  physique  and  presence  and  carriage, 
something  of  a bon  vivant  in  his  manner  of  living,  and 
it  was  a matter  of  wonder  that  he  did  not  take  a place 
as  speaker  as  well  as  singer,  for  certainly  he  had  all  the 
requisites — except,  perhaps,  assurance.  But  he  loved 
“sweet  melodies  married  to  words,”  better  than  all  else, 
and  though  there  was  much  of  the  artist  in  his  nature, 
and  he  sketched  well,  yet  music  absorbed  all  his  spare 
time,  and  even  trespassed  upon  the  hours  of  business. 

His  name  — the  few  thoughts  here  jotted  c^own  will 
re-open  the  pages  of  the  past  to  those  of  the  olden  time, 
and  his  friends  (and  who  were  not?)  will  drop  another 
tear  upon  his  grave,  and  kindly  brush  the  moss  from  the 
marble  above  it. 

* The  array  of  legal  learning  present  it  would  be  difficult  to  dupli- 
cate now,  for  in  it  were  interested  such  men  as  Justin  Butterfield, 
General  James  A.  McDougall,  Isaac  N.  Arnold,  John  J.  Brown,  and 
Patrick  Ballingall. 


PHILIP  MAXWELL,  M.D. 


The  Medical  Faculty  of  Chicago  would,  and  justly,  deem 
themselves  neglected  if  no  mention  was  made  of  the  Fal- 
staff  of  the  Profession  who,  to  use  one- of  his  own  argu- 
ments why  he  should  be  elected  to  the  Legislature,  “ carried 
weight  with  him!'’ 

In  physique , at  least,  this  was  true.  Dr.  Maxwell  was  a 
man  of  mor'e  than  ordinary  stature  and  unctuousness;  yet 
barely  approximating  to  the  gross.  He  carried  his  two 
hundred  and  eighty  pounds  very  easily  and  gracefully, 
though  that  is  more  than  could  have  been  truly  said  of  the 
favorite  grey  horse  upon  which  he  was  accustomed  to  dash 
through  the  streets  with  all  the  chic  and  erectness  of  a sol- 
dier and  the  abandon  and  insouciance  of  an  Indian.  In- 
deed, so  active  and  light  were  his  movements,  for  one  of 
his  figure,  that  it  was  always  a subj  ect  of  remark,  especially 
when  mounting  and  dismounting.  So,  too,  was  it  when  he 
trippingly  danced  in  those  “good  old  days”  when  Chicago 
Society  was  a unit  and  unbroken  by  cliques — by  the  with- 
drawal of  the  creme  de  la  creme  from  the  “promiscous  gath- 
erings,'’ and  the  setting  up  for  themselves  of  a standard 
blazened  with  the  motto  “I  am  better  than  thou,” — a most 
sublime  piece  of  egotism. 

Of  this  permit  a word. 

The  last  general,  free,  and  genial  reunion  of  the  votaries 
of  Terpsichore  was  held  at  the  “Sherman  House.”  and  (I 
think)  known  as  the  “Mechanics  Ball.”  It  was  gotten  up 
as  an  offset  to  that  of  the  “Young  Bachelors,”  a very  select 
and  (supposed  to  bel  recherche  affair,  and  the  tickets  placed 
at  the  merely  nominal  sum  of  one  dollar,  including  car- 


12 


PHILIP  MAXWELL,  M.D. 


riages  and  refreshments.  To  carry  out  the  intention  of  the 
originators  (and  who,  by  the  way,  had  a large  deficiency  of 
funds  to  make  up) — all  prominent  citizens  were  enlisted  as 
managers,  and  a difficulty  arose  as  to  how  they  could  be 
classed  as  Mechanics. 

“Put  down  Doctor  Maxwell  as  a Butcher,”  quoth  Col. 
Swift. 

“And  Dick  Swift  as  a Barber!”  (i.  e.,  Money-lender — 
shaver)  was  the  ready  retort  of  the  Physician. 

In  this  way  all  trouble  was  overcome  and  the  ball  was 
large — immense,  enthusiastic,  and  enjoyable.  It  was,  how- 
ever, the  final  gasp  of  general  , sociability,  and  the  united 
Chicago  of  the  old  was  known  nevermore.  But  to  return 
to  the  subject  proper.  • 

The  face  of  Doctor  Maxwell  was  in  keeping  with  his 
ponderous  frame.  It  was  broad,  massive,  pleasant,  and 
beaming  with  mirth — the  last  being,  the  key-note  of  his 
character.  It  had,  like  his  person  Falstaffian  breadth,  and 
depth,  and  proportion.  He  was  constantly  upon  the  qui 
vine  for  objects  of  merriment,  was  a 

“ Rare  compound  of  oddity,  frolic,  and  fun, 

Who  relished  a joke  and  rejoiced  in  a pun.” 

Even  at  the  most  solemn  times  it  was  next  to  impossible 
for  him  to  keep  the  bubbles  from  rising  to  the  surface — the 
gas  of  frivolity  from  escaping.  Nature  had  cast  him  in  the 
mould  of  “Sir  John,”  and  study  and  love  of  the  character 
had  perhaps  tinged  his  own  until  it  had  grown  to  resemble 
the  would-be  lover  of  Madame  Ford  and  “sweet  Mistress 
Page.” 

I know  such  was  the  charge  against  him — that  he  ever 
aped  the  burly  guzzler  of  sack  and  fancied  himself  the  suc- 
cessful rival  of  the  wonderful  creation  of  Shakespeare. 
Granted  that  the  charge  was  true,  the  idiosyncrasy  was 
perfectly  harmless.  But  the  Doctor  cared  little  for  such 
insinuations,  though  he  could  be  “ testy  ” at  times  and 


PHILIP  MAXWELL,  M.D. 


13 

pour  out  the  vials  of  his  wrath  like  the  bursting  forth  of  a 
volcano.  He  was  contented  to  go  along  “larding  the  lean 
earth,”  enjoying  a laugh,  no  matter  at  whose  expense,  and 
making  merry  at  life,  come  in  what  shape  it  might,  though 
the  sunshine  and  shadows  in  such  lives  are  very  marked. 
But,  for  the  most  part,  he  was  remarkably  genial, — feeling 
his  own  weaknesses  as  well  as  those  of  others ; and,  in  his 
limited  sphere,  was  a very  “king  of  misrule.”  If  he  had 
made  the  • peculiarities  of  Falstaff  a study,  and  reproduced 
them  in  his  daily  walk  and  conversation,  it  was  without 
malice  to  others— on  the  contrary,  for  their  amusement. 

As  a rule,  he  carried  sunshine  in  his  face  and  heart  and 
a quilp  upon  the  end  of  his  tongue — was  at  his  richest, 
when  he  could  get  a good  joke  upon  his  brother  professors 
of  the  curative  art — Stuart,  Egan,  and  Eldridge — when 
firing  double  shotted  guns  and  entire  batteries  at  a time  at 
the  Faculty  of  Rush  Medical  College — and  what  stories 
the  old  wooden  office  in  Clark  Street  could  tell  were  speech 
given  and  had  it  not  long  since  been  dust  and  ashes. 

Perhaps  the  highest  relish  of  the  Doctor  was  humbug- 
ging the  credulous  with  Munchausen  stories,  equalling  any 
of  the  “Fat  Knight.”  Instances  of  this  rise  thickly  as 
memory  turns  back  to  the  man  and  the  past  is  vividly  pict- 
ured again.  But  one  must  suffice,  though  the  temptation 
to  fill  pages  is  great: 

On  a bitter  morning  in  early  winter,  he  entered  a hotel, 
drank  a glass  of  water  (he  was  habitually  temperate),  rub- 
bed his  hands  complacently  and  discoursed  pompously 
upon  the  merits  of  bathing. 

“Surely,”  exclaimed  one  of  the  loungers  around  the 
glowing  stove,  “you  have  not  been  bathing  this  cold  morn- 
ing?” 

“Of  course  I have  — swimming,  Sir,  swimming,”  was  the 
answer. 

“Where  Doctor?” 

“In  tire  lake.” 


14  PHILIP  MAXWELL,  M.D. 

“The  lake?  Impossible!  It  must  be  frozen  along  the 
shores.” 

“Yes — certainly — yes,  but  I make  it  a practice  of  going 
in  every  morning  as  long  as  my  weight  will  break  the  ice;” 
and  he  departed  leaving  his  hearers  puzzled  as  to  the  truth 
of  the  story — and  which  did  not  contain  a particle  of  it. 

It  was  Doctor  Maxwell  who  made  the  sweeping  and  far 
from  complimentary  criticism  upon  the  late  Edwin  Forrest. 
Although  already  published  let  me  introduce  it  here  in 
brief: 

The  “great  tragedian”  was  playing  his  first  engagement 
in  Chicago,  had  finished  for  the  night,  was  going  to  his 
hotel  down  the  street  immediately  preceded  by  the  Doc- 
tor and  his  party.  His  opinion  was  asked  and  the  answer 
given  in  such  boisterous  tones  that  Forrest  could  not  fail 
to  have  heard  it  — “A  brute  force  and  native  stupidity- 
actor !”  Whether  just  or  not,  it  wras  his  opinion,  and  the 
world  was  never  kept  in  doubt  as  to  what  he  thought. 

There  was  much  in  the  character  and  mannerism  of  Dr. 
Maxwell  that  reminds  me  very  forcibly  of  the  Lawrence 
Baythorn  of  Dicken’s  “Bleak  House”  more  than  Falstaff. 
There  was  the  same  bluff,  hearty,  brusque  fashion  of  greet- 
ing— the  same  noisy  explosions — the  same  extravagant  ex- 
pressions and  denunciations — the  same  tremendous  bursts 
of  laughter — the  same  ferocious  threatening — and  the  same 
tender  heart  breathing  within  the  massive  breast  that  would 
turn  aside  for  fear  of  trampling  on  a worm,  even  while 
breathing  tornadoes  of  wordy  wrath  and  hurling  wordy 
thunderbolts  of  wholesale  destruction.  But  these  things 
(when  not  uttered  and  acted  in  jest,  as  rvas  frequently  the 
case,  served  the  more  to  clear  the  sky;  and  the  man — whom 
a stranger  might  have  looked  upon  as  bloodthirsty — was  as 
kind  in  reality,  as  incapable  of  doing  harm  as  a child — a 
singular  combination  of  Baythorn  and  Falstaff. 


i5 


JOHN  J.  BROWN. 


My  introduction  to  the  subject  of  this  brief  memoir  was 
so  peculiar  and  striking  that  it  could  not  be  forgotten,  par- 
ticularly when  taken  in  connection  with  the  man — one  al- 
most sui  generis.  It  must  have  occurred  very  soon  after  his 
advent  in  the  Garden  City,  for  I had  never  seen  or  even 
heard  of  him. 

I was  returning  late  one  evening  from  a visit  to  a sick 
friend.  There  was  a wild  storm  abroad.  Clouds  were 
flying  in  tumultuous  confusion,  driven  by  the  fierce  North- 
wind;  rain  was  falling  heavily;  the  lake  was  lashed  into 
foam  and  tossing  in  great  billows  upon  the  shore;  the  thun- 
der was  booming  and  crashing,  and  ever  and  anon  the  light- 
ning played  around  with  dazzling  and  fitful  fury.  It  was 
not  such  a night  as  one  would  willingly  be  abroad,  and  I 
was  breasting’  and  struggling  against  the  elemental  war  up 
Michigan  Avenue,  in  the  vicinity  of  Randolph  Street,  when 
. a more  than  usually  terrific  burst  of  thunder  caused  me  to 
pause — a vivid  flash  of  lightning  to  glance  anxiously  around 
. and  I saw  a man  standing  upon  the  lake-side  of  the  Avenue 
gesticulating  fiercely,  and  in  the  lull  that  followed,  I could 
distinctly  hear  him  talking  to  himself. 

Curiosity  could  not  be  repressed.  I fancied  it  must  be 
one  insane;  and,  forgetting  the  storm  and  darkness,  the 
fearful  pealing  of  the  thunder,  the  rain,  and  the  dangerous 
play  of  the  lightning,  I crossed  and  drew  near  to  his  side. 
And  as  I did  so,  there  came  to  my  ears  the  well-known 
, words  of  Byron  : 


JOHN  J.  BROWN. 


16 

“ The  sky  is  changed  ! and  such  a change!  Oh!  night, 

And  storm  and  darkness,  ye  are  wondrous  strong, 

Vet  lovely  in  your  strength,  as  in  the  light 
Of  a dark  eye  is  woman  ! Far  along, 

From  peak  to  peak,  the  rattling  crags  among 
Leaps  the  live  thunder!  Not  from  one  lone  cloud. 

But  every  mountain  now  hath  found  a tongue, 

And  Jura  answers,  through  her  misty  shroud, 

Back  to  the  joyous  Alps,  who  called  to  her  aloud!” 

Who  could  be  quoting  poetry  at  such  a time  and  in  such 
a situation?  If  curiosity  had  been  aroused  before,  it  stood 
toptoed  now.  I drew  back,  thrilling  with  a strange  fear, 
and  waited  for  the  next  flash  to  reveal  form  and  feature. 
When  it  came,  I looked  upon  a stranger  who  would  have 
impressed  himself  upon  any  assembly.  The  picture  rises 
before  me  now,  weird  almost  as  then,  when  the  background 
was  foaming  and  hissing  waters,  and  black  chaos  of  sky, 
and  the  shadows  following  the  flashes  eerie  ones.  „ 

The  figure  was  tall,  angular,  slightly  bent,  and  wrapped 
in  a cloak  ; the  face  sallow,  somewhat  hollow,  with  high 
cheek  bones,  and  eyes  deep  set,  heavily  browed  and  lashed,, 
and  with  more  than  usual  power  of  focusing  and  penetrat- 
ing. The  head  was  held  firmly,  straight,  defiantly,  and 
covered  with  long,  leonine  hair,  blown  fitfully  about  by  the 
wind.  The  voice  sonorous  and  emphatic. 

That  man  was  John  J.  Brown,  a newly  arrived  lawyer,  as 
. I came  later  to  know,  and  the  impression  of  him  then  re- 
ceived (almost  boy  as  I was)  without  doubt  ever  after 
colored  my  view  of  his  character,  and  something  of  it  may 
linger  even  now,  despite  the  dust  and  iconoclastic  power  of 
so  many  years. 

John  J.  Brown  was  naturally  a retiring,  misanthropic  man. 
The  lenses  through  which  he  looked  at  life  seemed  to  be 
ever  clouded — the  glimpses  of  sunshine  rare.  Whether  his 
nature  was  naturally  morbid — -whether  untoward  circum- 
stances had  made  it  so,  I never  had  the  means  of  knowing  ; 
but  that  he  was  uncommonly  shy  and  sensitive,  and  ever 


JOHN  J.  BROWN. 


I 7 


looked  at  the  darkest  side,  I am  of  opinion  will  not  be 
questioned.  He  lacked,  perhaps,  the  rebound,  the  recu- 
perative power  to  recover  from  a blow  or  loss  ; and  he  made 
its  sting  deeper  by  brooding  upon  it.  As  a boy,  I think  this 
must  have  been  the  case — as  a man,  standing  breast-high 
and  proud-headed  in  genius,  learning,  and  eloquence 
among  his  fellows  it  certainly  was  so;  and  none  who  knew 
him  will  deny  the  assertion,  f Knew  him!"  I have  said; 
but  were  there  any  who  did  so?  I doubt  it  very  much — 
doubt  if  he  ever  had  any  intimate  associates — any  to  whom 
he  fully  unbosomed  himself — to  whom  he  revealed  his 
inner  heart  and  the  motives  that  were  the  mainspring  of 
his  actions.  And  if  the  olden  mythological  fables  had  in 
them  aught  of  truth,  it  was  Pluto  that  hovered  about  his 
cradle,  and  Niobe  and  Melpomene  that  were  his  attendant 
spirits  through  life. 

This  gave  a sombre  coloring  to  almost  his  every  act  and 
thought.  'I'he  shadows  were  so  dense  behind-  the  sunrays 
that  they  could  never  be  entirely  hidden — the  gold  not  suf- 
ficiently bright  to  effectually  curtain  the  gloom.  In  all  his 
forensic  efforts  this  was  apparent  (at  least  to  my  mind),  and 
the  highest  flights  of  fancy  seemed  to  be  made  with  wings 
against  which  beat  the  rain.  But,  notwithstanding  this, 
they  were  of  great  power,  legal  acumen,  and  sound  law. 
His  mind  in  this  respect  was  singularly  critical  and  analyti- 
cal. The  very  things  that  militated  against  general  socia- 
bility and  the  power  of  self-forgetfulness — in  drinking  in 
the  perfume  of  the  flower,  unmindful  of  the  cruel  thorn  and 
poisoned  root,  gave  him  the  more  taste  and  ability  for 
research — more  concentration  of  mind  upon  the  salient 
points  he  intuitively  and  keenly  appreciated,  and  ever  after 
retained  ; and  this  was  so,  not  alone  in  the  law,  but  in  all 
he  read — history,  poetry,  philosophy,  theology — and  the 
most  apropos  quotations  were  ever  at  his  command. 

I have  spoken  of  his  hair  being  long  and  tawny  as  the 
mane  of  a lion.  It  was  so  in  fact,  was  very  noticable  and 


JOHN  J.  BROWN. 


iS 

first  called  attention.  But  it  was  his  eyes  that  unwaveringly 
fixed  it,  for,  at  times,  when  his  soul  was  fully  aroused,  they 
literally  appeared  to  burn.  I use  the  term  advisedly,  and 
can  find  none  more  appropriate.  When  indulging  in  his 
wonderful  and  bitter  powers  of  sarcasm;  when  forgetful  of 
self,  and  the  ebb  and  flood  of  sorrowful  waves,  in  the  mas- 
tery of  his  subject — when  all  the  shadows  were  exorcised, 
his  eyes  gleamed  with  a strange  phosphorescent  light  and 
exerted  a strong,  subtle,  magnetic  power  that  was  not  to  be 
resisted.  In  that  respect,  he  was  very  like  Rufus  Choate, 
of  whom  it  has  been  said,  11  no  one  could  report  if  they  looked 
at  him!"  The  same  thing  was,  in  a great  measure,  true  of 
John  J.  Brown,  as  I learned  by  experience  when  attempt- 
ing to  reproduce  his  words  upon  paper,  during  a celebrated 
trial.  I watched  the  speaker  and  forgot  pencil  and  paper  ! 

Looking  calmly  back  now,  after  a decade  and  more  have 
passed,  1 am  inclined  to  believe  his  greatest  power  was  in 
scathing  denunciation  and  intense  bitterness.  I would  not 
be  understood  that  such  was  the  natural  status  of  his  mind, 
for  I do  not  believe  it.  On  the  contrary,  I had  occasion  to 
know  that  the  milk  of  human  kindness  had  not  soured 
within  his  veins,  and  there  was  much  of  the  gentleness  and 
tenderness  of  woman  in  his  composition.  But  he  was  un- 
doubtedly the  great  master  of  withering  and  remorseless 
irony  when  aroused,  of  satirical  and  scornful  gibe  then  at 
the  Chicago  Bar — of  sarcasm  that  when  given  full  rein  had 
something  almost  sardonic  in  it.  To  this  end,  his  vehe- 
ment gestures,  his  eyes,  his  tall,  flexible  person,  and  his 
leonine  hair,  all  added  emphasis,  and  woe  to  those  upon 
whom  the  razorlike  edge  of  his  tongue  fell  when  unbridled. 

Two  particular  instances  drift  up  from  the  depths  of 
memory.  The  first  is  that  of  the  trial  of  Rev.  Wm  F. 
Walker,  elsewhere  mentioned  : 

The  opening  of  his  speech  rvas  calni,  graceful,  even  beau- 
tiful. He  said,  “ I did  not  expect  to  be  present  at  this 
trial.  I thought  the  blue  waves  of  the  lake  would  have 


JOHN  J.  BROWN. 


19 


rolled  and  sparkled  between  me  and  it.”  But  as  he  pro- 
gressed, as  he  fully  gave  himself  up  to  the  subject  he 
warmed,  grew  deeper,  stronger  in  thought,  more  forcible  in 
imagery,  his  nerves  quivered,  his  hair  was  disordered,  and 
his  eyes  flashed  as  burning  steel.  Any  looker  on  must 
liave  been  reminded  of  the  gathering  and  bursting  of  a 
storm.  And  when  at  its  height  it  was  terrible.  When  he 
pictured  the  manufacturing  of  the  “patchwork  slanders” — 
of  those  professing  the  broadest  humanity  and  Christianity, 
coming  “to  the  altar  with  the  word  of  God  in  their  hands 
.and  the  devil  in  their  hearts” — when  he  hurled  wholesale 
scorn  and  infamy  upon  their  heads — when  he  spoke  of 
their  “ supreme  and  besotted  ignorance  and  worse  than 
heathenish  bigotry”  he  rose  to  such  an  altitude  of  invective 
that  few  who  had  awakened  his  wrath  could  remain,  and 
even  the  ordinary  listener  felt  a shivering  awe  and  dread. 

The  second  time  was  in  a strictly  legal  encounter,  and 
with  foemen  worthy  of  his  steel : 

One  of  his  antagonists  he  (figuratively)  held  up  by  his 
long  hair,  so  that  all  could  see  him,  and  painted  him  in 
such  colors  as  made  even  the  fiends  appear  more  just  and 
pure — made  him  act  the  most  vile  monster  possible  with 
humanity — cut  so  deeply  that  the  audience  could  not  but 
pity.  Turning  from  the  fierce  wirlwind  of  denunciation,  he 
addressed  the  other  in  low  and  measured  tones — reminded 
him  of  his  position  in  the  Church,  and  saying:  “I  have  no 
words  for  him.  The  reproof  must  come  from  a higher 
source,  even  from  the  God  he  pretends  to  worship,”  he 
fixed  him  with  his  eyes,  and  opening  a bible  read  the  most 
bitterly  appropriate  chapter  contained  between  its  lids. 

They  had  raised  the  lion,  and  having  felt  the  full  weight 
of  his  claws  and  power  of  his  teeth,  paid  dearly  for  their 
attack. 

I know  it  was  customary  to  compare  John  J.  Brown  with 
Justin  Butterfield  in  this  respect,  but  I never  thought  the 
comparison  tenable.  Butterfield  was  a man  of  undoubted 


20 


JOHN  J.  BROWN. 


power  of  retaliation,  and  legal  knowledge,  but  he  lacked! 
(in  my  judgment)  the  keenness  of  Brown.  Were  I to  in- 
dulge in  a simile,  I should  say,  that,  while  from  his  heavy 
blows  he  might  have  been  Richard,  his  rival  was  the  Sala- 
din — the  one  would  crush  with  a gigantic  battle-axe,  the 
other  cut  to  the  heart  with  a blade  of  Toledo  temper. 

As  to  legal  requirements,  John  J.  Brown  stood  high. 
His  mind  was  a treasure-house  as  was  shown  during  the 
brief  time  he  taught  a law  school.  Had  his  natural  tem- 
perament been  different — had  his  health  been  better — had 
life  been  more  roseate,  he  would,  as  the  years  rolled  on,  have 
made  for  himself  a high  and  honored  name.  But  he  never 
mingled  much  with  his  fellows;  and  it  was  only  when  inter- 
ested and  awakened  in  the  argument  of  a case  that  he  re- 
vealed what  he  truly  was — only  then  that  the  shadow  was 
ever  lifted  from  heart  and  brain. 

The  particulars  of  his  death  were  not  familiar  to  me.  I 
have  a faint  recollection  of  some  mystery  shrouding  it — 
that  his  soul  found  the  Nepenthe,  the  “surcease  from  sor- 
row” otherwise  than  surrounded  by  loving  hearts.  Be  that 
as  it  might,  his  life  appeared  to  be  a fitful  one,  and  May  he 
sleep  well ! More  sunny  natures  have  gone  before,  and 
have  followed  him,  but  no  stronger,  no  more  legal,  none 
more  intense  have  taken  their  places  in  the  green  tent 
“whose  curtains  never  outward  swing.”  Aye,  and  in  the 
younger  ranks  of  his  profession  who  can  claim  the  place  he 
left  vacant?  When  some  one  shall  write  at  length  the  his- 
tory of  the  Bar  of  Chicago,  upon  its  highest  page  will  be 
found  the  name  of  John  J.  Brown.  Peace,  eternal  peace 
to  his  ashes. 


2 I 


RICHARD  L.  WILSON. 


The  name  of  Richard  L.  Wilson  was  so  long  and  inti- 
mately connected  with  the  Chicago  Journal  that  it  is 
familiar  as  “ household  words  ”,  not  only  to  the  olden  time 
readers  of  that  paper,  but  to  all  who  dwelt  in  the  City, 
County,  and  it  might  almost  be  said,  State. 

His  personal  popularity,  as  well  as  his  political  influence, 
was  widespread  and  universally  admitted,  although  it  was 
.an  impossibility  for  any  one  occupying  the  position  he  held 
to  be  without  enemies.  Yet  these  came  from  tilts  in  the 
arena  of  politics  far  more  (if  not  entirely)  than  any  other 
cause.  For  what  he  thought  right  he  labored  manfully — 
wielded  a caustic  pen,  and  threw  hot-shot  directly  into  the 
camp  of  the  enemy,  regardless  of  the  consequences.  But 
it  was  the  cause,  not  the  individual,  he  would  cripple — the 
batteries  he  would  unmask  and  silence — the  rifle-pits  he 
would  cause  to  surrender,  not  the  men  of  which  they  were 
composed.  He  believed  the  salvation  of  the  country  de- 
pended upon  Henry  Clay  and  the  Whig  Party;  and  it 
would  have  been  very  difficult  for  a “ trumpet-tongued 
angel”  to  have  convinced  him  to  the  contrary,  for  his  was 
a positive  nature. 

To  those  who  stood  out  of  the  reach  of  the  flying  splin- 
ters and  debris,  it  was  amusing  to  see  how  he  would  de- 
molish the  long  “leaders”  of  his  antagonists  with  a few 
words.  As  a writer  of  short,  pithy,  pointed  paragraphs  I 
never  knew  his  equal  among  the  Chicago  editorial  fraterni- 
ty. This  was  his  forte,  and  in  it  he  resembled  Prentice, 
of  the  Louisville  Journal , more  . than  any  other  of  his  day. 


o o 


richard  l.  wilson: 


If  grape-shot,  and  canister,  and  shrapnel  were  fired  by 
broadsides,  he  answered  with  a single  shot  from  a well- 
aimed  rifled  gun,  which  caused  more  havoc  than  all  their 
noise  and  wholesale  missiles.  “Grandpa  Dutch”  might  fire 
column  after  column  of  “double-leaded”  matter  at  his 
head,  and  “Dick”  would  send  back  three  lines  that  would 
.drive  even  “ Banks!  Banks!  BANKS  !”  from  the  brain  of 
the  old  gentleman,  for  a time  at  least. 

In  this,  more  than  any  other  way,  he  made  his  editorial 
power  felt,  though  he  was  sometimes  tempted  to  indulge  in 
it  to  excess,  with  regard  to  the  Democrat , and  its  elongated1 
proprietor,  and  laughingly  own  that  he  might  as  well  have- 
attempted  to  perforate  the  thick  skin  of  a rhinoceros  with 
mustard  seed.  It  was,  however,  a favorite  pastime  with  all 
the  knights  of  the  quill  of  the  day — did  no  harm — served 
as  a^safetv  valve,  and  “Long  John”  continued  to  wax  fat 
and  rich  and  carry  the  Congressional  district  in  his  breeches 
pocket  the  same  as  before. 

Save  for  these  pointed  squibs  that  generally  pierced 
through  the  armor  of  his  antagonist  as  if  it  had  been  but 
silken  folds,  Mr.  Wilson  (to  the  best  of  my  knowledge) 
indulged  but  little  in  authorship,  though  famous  for  writ- 
ing toasts,  and  good  ones,  for  public  dinners.  The  only 
instance  of  his  “book  making”  that  came  under  my  obser- 
vation was  “ Short  Ravelings  from  a Long  Yarn ” — a story 
of  Spanish  life  and  adventure,  and  even  that,  I believe, 
was  “licked  into  shape”  by  another.  But  Mr.  Wilson 
furnished  the  data,  supervised,  and  was  entitled  to  the  lion’s- 
share  of  the  credit. 

As  1 have  already  stated,  long  articles  were  not  either 
his  forte  or  his  propensity.  His  spirit  was  too  restless  for 
such  drudgery.  ' It  was  with  him  aim  and  fire.  He  could 
not  patiently  still-hunt — could  not  follow  a long  trail  Ind- 
ian-like to  secure  a scalp.  His  nature  was  too  ardent — he 
leaped  over  boundaries  too  rapidly  for  any  such  plodding, 
and  if  an  enemy  he  was  an  open  one.  Every  fibre  of  his; 


RICHARD  I..  WILSON.  23 

soul  would  have  scorned  lurking  in  ambush,  striking  with- 
out giving  an  opportunity  of  defense,  stabbing  from  behind 
the  back  in  the  dark.  Such  things  were  altogether  foreign 
to  his  nature.  If  impulsive  he  was  honorable;  if  prone  to 
criticise,  just. 

Of  what  Iris  position  would  have  been  in  the  late  un- 
happy fratricidal  struggle  no  one  who  knew  him  will  for  a 
moment  question.  It  could  have  been  but  one  thing,  and 
into  the  side  he  espoused  he  -would  have  thrown  himself 
body  and  soul.  A divided  country  would  never  have  been 
tolerated  by  him,  even  in  thought.  The  Union,  as  he 
looked  upon  it,  was  ever  to  be  a unit,  and  rested  upon  a 
foundation  as  lasting  as  time. 

His  patriotism  was  shown  in  the  fatal  rejoicing  that  crip- 
pled him  for  the  remainder  of  his  life.  The  news  of  the 
battle  of  Buena  Vista,  that  sent  an  electric  thrill  through 
the  land,  stirred  his  breast  to  its  lowest  depths.  He  threw 
himself  into  the  ranks  of  those  who  celebrated  the  victory 
— was  the  moving  and  master-spirit;  but  the  premature 
explosion  of  the  cannon  used  left  a terrible  personal  record. 
And  it  showed,  too,  the  iron  nerve  of  the  man — a will 
almost  matchless  in  firmness — a scorn  of  physical  suffering 
unparalelled — a power  to  endure  that  w'as  beyond  belief. 

I w'as  among  the  first  to  reach  him,  after  the  accident, 
having  been  a looker  on  at  but  a little  distance.  I helped 
to  carry  him  into  the  Sherman  House,  and,  consequently, 
know  of  what  I vyrite.  To  describe  his  injuries  here  would 
not  only  be  useless,  but  create  doubt.  No  one,  who  did 
not  see  him,  v'ould  believe  a man  could  be  so  mangled  and 
live.  It  wras  a sight  that  made  many  a heart  sick,  and 
many  a strong  nature  grow  faint.  This  was  the  case  with 
his  regular  physician.  He  attempted  the  necessary  surgery, 
shook  like  an  aspen,  and  was  forced  to  give  up  the  task  to 
another.  And  during  the  lengthy  ordeal,  one  of  most 
terrible  suffering,  Mr.  Wilson  lay,  with  compressed  lips 
— uttered  no  groan— never  spoke  of  what  he  was  so  hero- 


24  RICHARD  L.  WILSON. 

jcally  enduring,  save  once.  As  a large,  ragged  Splinter 
of  the  ramrod  was  being  removed  from  its  place  under  and 
intertwisted  with  the  biceps  muscles  of  the  right  arm,  he 
said,  in  answer  to  a question  of  a friend:  “Yes,  that  hurts.” 
That  was  all : and,  taken  as  a whole,  it  was  a masterly  in- 
stance of  patient  endurance — a literal  triumph  of  mind  over 
matter.  And  this  same  indomitable  will  and  nerve  enabled 
him  to  soon  again  resume  his  duties;  but  the  injuries  ever 
after  affected  him  and  sapped  his  life. 

Mr.  Wilson  was  a genial  companion  and  a true  friend, 
was  liberal  beyond  his  means  when  his  sympathies  were 
enlisted,  and  never  stopped  to  coldly  count  the  cost  of  a 
favor.  There  was  nothing  selfish  or  phlegmatic  about  him. 
Every  action  sprang  from  the  dictates  of  a manly-beating 
heart,  and  the  faults  (if  they  can  justly  so  be  called)  that 
always  cling  to  such  men  were  attributable  to  the  mental 
combination  — to  the  actual  necessity  of  excitement  and  ac- 
tion— to  the  never  letting  “I  dare  not  wait  upon  I would,” 
to  (in  practical  life  at  least)  the  Napoleonic  motto  that 
— “the  end  justifies  the  means” — to  the  more  than  usual 
social  element — to  a remarkably  vivid  appreciation  of  the 
humorous — to  his  peculiar  surroundings — to  the  association 
into  which  he  was  forced — to  the  age  in  which  he  lived. 

Sportsmen  of  the  days  of  Richard  L.  Wilson  will  remem- 
ber him  with  pleasure.  He  was  a keen  lover  of  the  gun 
and.  skilful  in  its  use.  If  prairie  chickens  arose  within  rea- 
sonable distance,  it  was  bad  for  the  chickens!  Had  his 
early  life  been  different,  he  would  have  enjoyed,  as  only 
such  enthusiasts  can  enjoy,  living  with  nature  in  her  wildest 
moods  and  made  his  mark  as  hunter,  pioneer,  even  “Indian 
fighter,”  for  fear  was  not  a component  part  of  his  being. 
He  was  the  life  of  the  camp  fire  as  he  was  foremost  in 
quest  of  game,  and  though  he  never  “strung  rhymes”  had 
much  of  the  poetic,  and  saw  all  that  was  beautiful  in  sky, 
water,  woodland,  and  treeless  plain.  Glimmerings  of  this 
crop  out  in  the  little  book  I have  mentioned,  and  it  was 


RICHARD  L.  WILSON. 


when  afar  from  the  haunts  of  men  that  it  shone  the  bright- 
est. sparkled  the  most  brilliantly,  rather  than  when  weary 
and  chafed  by  the  editorial  harness.  Then  he  gave  loose 
rein  to  his  thoughts,  flung  aside  the  rare  power  of  conden- 
sation that  made  his  newspaper  paragraphs  mosaics  of 
terse  pointedness — indulged  freely  in  anecdote,  and  jest, 
and  repartee — gave  graphic  descriptions  of  hunter’s  life 
that  spiced  to  perfection  the  birds  broiling  upon  the  glow- 
ing coals.  Then,  also,  he  showed  as  he  never  did  at 
any  other  time,  the  wealth  of 'his  imagination,  the  power  (if 
trained)  to  throw  off  page  after  page  of  brilliant  matter — to 
make  a remarkably  readable  book.  That  he  never  did  was 
often  a wonder  to  his  friends.  It  might  have  come  with 
his  years  (if  spared)  had  it  not  been  for  the  accident  that 
made  penmanship  severe  labor,  and  despite  his  buoyant 
heart  and  resolute  will  must  have  left  a legacy  of  shadows. 
That  he  did  not  is  to  be  regretted.  It  could  not  have  been 
otherwise  than  valuable  and  interesting. 

Mr.  Wilson  was  an  ardent  admirer  of  and  believer  in  the 
destiny  of  Chicago.  He  always  predicted  for  it  a bright 
and  glorious  future,  and  he  foresaw  something  of  its  great- 
ness. Not  all  — perhaps  not  one  tithe.  Who  could? 
There  was  no  prophetic  ken  keen  enough,  no  imagination 
sufficiently  vivid  to  grasp  the  possibilities  when  the  terrible 
baptism  and  purification  of  fire  should  have  been  perfect. 

Any  who  foretold  what  would  arise  from  the  ashes  would 
have  been  deemed  insane.  But  the  mind  of  Richard  L. 
Wilson  grasped  much  of  what  has  been — what  will  yet  be. 
He  realized  the  importance  of  its  geographical  position — 
its  immense  business  resources  and  activity,  and  that,  sitting 
as  it  did,  drinking  in  the  commerce  of  the  chain  of  lakes 
upon  one  side,  and  stretching  but  its  broad  arms  of  prairie 
upon  the  other,  it  must  become  great.  And  in  every  way 
he  assisted  to  its  present.  This  his  paper  enabled  him  to 
do — for  this  he  labored  in  season  and  out  of  season — for 
this  he  created  friends  by  his  personal  attractiveness — and 


2 6 


RICHARD  L.  WILSON. 


for  this,  if  the  departed  have  power  to  return  to  the  earth 
and  minister  to  the  wants  of  the  living,  his  loyal  spirit  yet 
lingers  over  the  city  of  his  love  and  haunts  the  inner  shrine 
of  the  Chicago  Journal. 


LEWIS  C.  KERCHIVAL. 


Probably,  very  few  of  the  younger  generation  in  Chicago 
have  any  distinct  remembrance  of  Lewis  C.  Iverchival. 
Hut  such  as  do  must  have  been  impressed  by  the  striking 
points  in  a character  that  stood  out  strongly  from  his  fel- 
lows. 

The  elder  citizens — those  who  still  linger  in  green  old 
age  and  ripe  usefulness,  and  it  is  to  be  hoped  with  plenty 
of  this  world’s  goods,  after  the  great  majority  of  their  associ- 
ates have  passed  away,  will  recall  him  as  “ Inspector  of  the 
Port'’  (with  commerce  that  was  a laughable  burlesque  upon 
the  present),  and  later  as  Justice  of  the  Peace,  with  an  of- 
fice in  the  second  story  of  the  tumble-down  wooden  tene- 
ment (Clark’s  Hardware  Store),  on  the  north-east  corner  of 
.Lake  and  Clark  Streets,  and  directly  facing  the  famous 
“Saloon  Building,”  a history  of  which  would  be  a history  of 
almost  all  the  public  meetings,  and  gatherings,  and  socie- 
ties of  early  Chicago. 

Lewis  C.  Iverchival  rises  before  me  to-day  as  distinct  as 
when  I used  to  meet  him  in  the  streets,  straight  as  a pine, 
unbending  as  an  oak,  defiant  and  tough  as  a hickory;  with 
his  tall,  muscular  form,  his  grizzled  hair,  blue,  brass-but- 
toned  coat,  and  his  soldier-like  bearing,  proud  as  Julius 
Caesar  and  imperious  as  the  Czar;  always  neatly  dressed, 
with  cleanly-shaved  face  and — a rara  avis  in  those  muddy 
times — well-polished  boots. 


LEWIS  C.  KERCHIYAL. 


2 7 


Should  I compare  him  with  any  other  well-known  char- 
acter it  would  be  Andrew  Jackson.  The  mental  calibre  of 
the  men,  as  well  as  their  physique , was  much  the  same. 
Each  knew  and  did  not  shrink  from  “taking  the  responsi- 
bility” of  any  act  they  thought  right — had  no  dread  of,  per- 
haps never  even  gave  a thought  to  the  consequences.  The 
“by  the  Eternal”  of  the  President  was  the  animus  of  the 
citizen,  and  I often  fancied  (as  did  others)  that  they  were 
very  alike  in  looks. 

The  hair  of  Col.  Kerchival  was  a true  index  of  his  charac- 
ter. It  was  kept  cut  short,  and  every  “particular  one"  of 
the  dense  growth  stood  stiffly,  savagely  erect,  without  de- 
pending upon,  and  as  if  scorning  the  support  of,  the  others; 
and  had  an  individuality  of  its  own — had  a gladiatorial 
presence  and  a challenge  to  combat.  So,  too,  was  it  with 
the  man.  He  appeared  to  snuff  the  battle  from  afar,  like 
an  old  war-horse,  and  had  the  most  sublime  contempt  for 
those  who  did  not  agree  with  him.  There  was  something 
grand  in  his  attitude,  whether  right  or  wrong,  though  it  is 
very  much  to  be  doubted  if  he  ever  admitted  the  possibility 
of  the  latter.  That  would  have  been  a human  weakness, 
of  which  he  could  never  have  believed  himself  guilty.  What 
he  thought  and  said  must  be  right , and  it  was  impudence  of 
* the  most  gross  character  in  any  to  question.  And  if  the 
disputant  happened  to  be  young ! Ah  ! then  Lear  was 
rivalled.  But  his  passion  was  like 

f‘A  full  hot  horse,  who  being  allowed  his  way, 

Self-mettle  tires  him.” 

And  he  soon  became  the  calm  gentleman  again;  for  under 
all  the  heat  there  was  a tender,  almost  womanly  heart,  and 
the  eyes  that  one  moment  flashed  baleful  lightnings  would 
the  next  be  misty  with  genuine  tears. 

Of  the  more  than  iron  will,  memory  will  reproduce  many 
examples  to  the  minds  of  those  no  longer  young,  whose 
eyes  kindly  rest  upon  these  pages.  A few  are  so  strikingly 


28 


LEWIS  C.  KERCHIVAL. 


characteristic  of  the  man  that  I cannot  refrain  from  giving 
them  place.  And  I do  so  the  more  willingly  as  one  in- 
stance proves  beyond  all  cavil  his  inward,  native  goodness, 
no  matter  how  warped  at  times,  and  a determination  for 
the  right. 

The  habits  of  Mr.  Kerchival,  in  the  matter  of  drinking, 
had  not  been  good.  It  was  the  crying  sin  of  the  era — the 
most  serious  blight  upon  the  escutcheon  of  the  fair  young 
City.  His  indulgences  had  grown  upon  him.  Inebriety 
became  the  rule  rather  than  the  exception,  and  a speedy 
and  dishonored  grave  appeared  to  be  his  inevitable  doom, 
unless  there  was  a radical  change.  And  it  came  when  least 
expected  by  his  friends.  He  decided  to  drink  no  more — 
and  instantly  stopped.  Severe  sickness  followed,  as  a natu- 
ral sequence  to  the  sudden  lack  of  stimulant;  and  when  a 
physician  prescribed  and  held  the  “poisoned  cup”  to  his 
lips,  and  told  him  he  must  drink  if  he  would  live,  the  old 
Roman  dashed  it  aside,  and  vowed  “he  would  die  before  he 
tasted  a single  drop” — and  he  kept  his  word. 

Subsequently  he  became  the  president  of  the  Temperance 
Society,  and  one  night,  when  a meeting  was  in  progress, 
some  one  brought  forward  a negro  to  sign  the  pledge,  his 
face  flamed  with  indignation,  he  declared  the  meeting  ad- 
journed, and  rushed  from  the  room.  It  was  touching  him* 
in  a very  tender  spot.  His  hatred  for  a colored  person  rvas 
too  intense  for  him  to  admit  the  slightest  association.  In- 
deed, it  was  laughable  how  peculiarly  sensitive  he  was  upon 
the  subject,  and  his  loathing  was  so  great  that  had  he  then 
(his  views  became  somewhat  softened  at  a later  date)  been 
convinced  that  that  particular  race  would  have  been  ad- 
mitted into  heaven,  he  would  have  considered  it  a good 
and  sufficient  reason  and  ample  justification  for  going  in 
the  contrary  direction. 

The  same  imperative  will-  the  same  strong,  overmaster- 
ing prejudice  controlled  his  judicial  acts  and  legal  decisions, 
even  more  than  he  was  himself  aware.  • Though  I believe 


LEWIS  C.  KERCHIVAL. 


29 


him  to  have  been  honest  to  his  heart’s  core,  yet  there  was 
an  irresistible  bias  that  sometimes  ran  away  with  his  better 
judgment,  and  bordered  upon  the  ludicrous,  and  he  made 
law  quite  a different  affair  from  that  laid  down  in  the  stat- 
ute book  and  held  to  be  sound  by  higher  authority.  I give 
an  instance : 

It  was  claimed,  and  justly,  that  active  firemen  were  ex- 
empt from  street  tax,  and  custom,  at  least,  had  made  it 
binding.  But  “Squire  Kerchival”  argued  otherwise.  He 
permitted  a suit  to  be  brought  against  one  of  the  “fire  fight- 
ters”  for  the  amount,  and  sternly  overruled  the  exemption. 
Then  the  defense  produced  three  of  the  most  prominent 
physicians,  who  swore  point  blank-,  that  on  account  of  bod- 
ily injuries,  the  defendant  was  not  able  to  work  upon  the 
streets  and  consequently  not  liable.  There  was  nothing  in 
rebuttal.  But  “the  Squire”  ignored  the  testimony  entirely. 
He  had  made  up  his  mind  and  that  was  sufficient — said 
“he  had  seen  the  defendant  dance  half  the  night,  and  any 
one  who  was  able  to  dance  was  able  to  work  on  the  streets, 
and  he’d  be  (well,  say  blessed  1)  if  he  shouldn’t  either  do  it 
or  pay  1” — vowed  he  wouldn't  permit  an  appeal,  and  forth- 
with issued  an  execution. 

But  nothing  came  of  it;  and  his  books,  if  now  to  be 
found,  will  reveal  the  judgment  unsatisfied.  Sober  second- 
thought  had  shown  him  the  impracticability  and  absurdity 
of  his  course,  and  I presume  he  laughed  as  heartily  as  did 
others  at  his  high-handed  defiance  of  law  and  testimony. 
It  was  simply  one  of  the  furious  storms  that  the  soonest 
clear  the  sky. 

Next  to,  if  not  equal  with  his  hatred  of  “our  brothers 
carved  in  ebony”  was  that  of  dogs.  He  had  the  most  mor- 
tal antipathy  to  them.  They  never  entered  into  his  con- 
ception of  Paradise.  In  that  particular,  if  in  no  other,  he 
was  “close  communion,”  and  would  have  cut  off  the  best  of 
his  friends  among  the  Red  Men  from  the  happy  hunting- 
grounds,  for  their  love  of  and  close  intimacy  with  their  use- 


LEWIS  C.  KERCHIVAL. 


30 

ful  four-footed  companions.  This  feeling  was  no  secret, 
and  it  was  made  use  of  to  annoy  the  old  gentleman,  though 
truth  to  tell  more  from  the  fun  that  would  arise  out  of  it 
than  malice. 

The  prime  mover  was  Doctor (he  might  not  fancy 

having  his  name  given  to  the  public,  so  HI  e’en  whisper  it 
very  lowly  and  confidentially  upon  the  solemn  pledge  that 
you’ll  “never  tell  nobody”)  — Doctor  Max  Myers.  He 
caused  an  advertisement  to  be  inserted  in  one  of  the 
papers,  that  Squire  Kerchival  was  very  anxious  to  purchase 
a good  dog,  and  requested  any  who  had  one  for  sale  to 
bring  it  to  his  office  between  the  hours  of  nine  and  twelve 
upon  the  following  day.  • And  such  a collection  as  ap- 
peared, mirabile  dicta!  Dutch  men,  and  dutch  women, 
and  dutch  girls,  and  dutch  boys  from  the  neighborhood  of 
“Dill’s  Brewery”;  Milesian  men,  women,  girls,  and  boys 
from  the  North,  South,  East,  and  West,  and  ragged  juve- 
niles from  every  alley.  And  dogs?  No  race  appeared 
unrepresented.  The  “School  Section”  (old  settlers  will 
understand  the  meaning  of  the  term)  were  in  full  force, 
terriers,  Newfoundland,  pointers,  setters,  hounds,  bulldogs, 
“Tray,  Blanche,  and  Sweetheart,”  big,  little,  useful,  worth- 
less were  all  there,  and  the  office  was  taken  by  storm,  and 
the  street  crowded,  and  a human  and  canine  Babel  reigned 
and  Bedlam  was  outdone ! 

But  the  reception  they  received  ! It  beggars  all  the  power 
of  description,  let  imagination  run  riot  ever  so  madly;  the 
motley  crowd  was  hurried,  driven,  hustled,  not -very  gently, 
down  the  stairs  amid  the  wildest  jargon  and  carnival  of 
denunciation,  and  curses,  and  vows  of  vengence  from  Teu- 
tonic, -Irish  and — that  was  the  feather  that  crushed  the 
spine  of  the  camel — colored  lips;  the  door  locked,  and  the 
scales  of  Justice  that  day  left  untended.  And  “wratlyy” 
indeed  was  the  Squire  when  he  found  it  was  a practical 
joke — blew  hot  and  blew  cold — but  when  the  waves  had 
lashed  their  fury  out  he  bore  no  malice. 


LEWIS  C.  KERCHIVAL. 


31 

Despite  his  peppery  temper,  Lewis  C.  Kerchival — Colonel 
Kerchival — was  a man  to  be  respected.  None  of  ns  are 
without  faults,  and  his  came  from  natural  organization — 
from  the  want  perhaps  of  proper  training  when  young — 
from  his  head  rather  than  heart.  He  was  of  the  ancient 
regime  — had  the  manners  of  a “gentleman  of  the  old 
school’’ — the  will  that  would  have  caused  him  to  march 
triumphantly  to  the  stake  for  a principle,  and  the  nerve  to 
endure  torture  without  a groan.  He  was  as  much  a part  of 
his  times  as  the  buildings — has  left  a name  that  is  indis- 
solutly  connected  with  Chicago — was  true  as  steel  in  his 
friendships  and  when  the  sod  was  placed  over  him,  many 
of  what  the  world  called  “better  men”  would  have  been 
less  missed. 


URIAH  P.  HARRIS. 


Nature  created  Uriah  P.  Harris,  for  a fireman,  and  I am 
inclined  to  the  belief  that  his  playthings  in  the  cradle  must 
have  been  miniature  trumpets,  spanners,  and  wrenches,  and 
that  the  first  use  he  made  of  his  limbs  was  to  “run  with  the 
machine,”  and  of  his  hands,  to  hold  a pipe  and  a butt! 
This  may  seem  an  idle  delusion  of  the  fancy,  but  the  after- 
life of  the  man  would  appear  to  prove  the  theory. 

Mr.  Harris,  I am  quite  confident,  owed  his  nativity  to 
New  York  City.  During  his  younger  days  he  was  a mem- 
ber, and  we  may  be  certain  an  active  one,  of  engine  number 
27,  “Old  North  River,”  and  in  the  rough  school  of  the  Vol- 
unteer department,  the  constant  calls  for  energy  and  cour- 
age, and  the  not  unfrequent  difficulties  with  rival  companies, 
he  learned,  and  learned  well,  the  stern  lessons  that  fitted 
him  for  his  after  career. 


URIAH  1\  HARRIS. 


Upon  his  arrival  in  Chicago,  he  joined  “Osceola,  num- 
ber 3, then  having  a house  upon  the  river  bank  on  the 
north  side,  at  the  foot  of  Dearborn  Street — the  “Kid  Glove 
Company,”  as  its  enemies  dubbed  it.  It  was  composed  for 
the  most  part  of  the  “solid  men”  of  the  North  Division 
(with  a few  from  the  South  side),  and  represented  much 
wealth,  and  the  very  first  of  social  standing;  a distinctive 
feature  it  retained  in  a great  degree  to  the  very  last,  al- 
though the  first  members  bore  away  the  palm  in  these  re- 
spects, and  the  names  to  be  found  upon  its  (then)  roll  stood 
and  stand  to-day  as  high  as  any  in  the  city,  and  the  paid 
department  do  no  more  severe  work  than  was  done  by  the 
“hand  engines”  then — if  they  equal  it. 

The  coolness,  the  power  to  control  and  direct  others,  the 
far-sightedness,  the  quickness  of  decision,  the  knowledge  of 
the  fantastic  moods  of  the  flames,  the  scope  and  force  of 
water,  the  best  point  of  attack,  the  surest  way  to  defeat,  all 
belonged  to  Mr.  Harris,  and  he  was  dowered  with  the 
strength  and  stamina  to  defy  the  excesses  of  heat,  and  cold, 
and  exposure,  inseparable  to  such  a life. 

All  will  remember  him,  for  he  was  a part  of  the  new  as 
well  as  the  old  Chicago.  His  figure  was  tall  and  presence 
commanding — a shade  too  heavy  in  his  later  years  for  the 
arduous  duty,  but  never  shirking  it.  The  strongest,  the  ab- 
sorbing passion  of  his  life  was  to  be  a fireman.  It  was  his 
beau  ideal  of  perfect  manhood — the  achme  of  human  bliss — 
the  highest  aim  of  his  ambition.  No  general  ever  felt  more 
happy  than  he  in  marshalling  his  forces  against  the  “de- 
vouring element” — none  were  more  jubilant  in  victory. 

But  it  must  be  remembered  that  his  was  no  Common 
conception  of  what  constituted  a true  fireman.  It  had 
been  the  study  of  his  lifetime — he  had  consecrated  himself 
to  it,  as  it  were,  and  the  one  who  reached  his  mark  had  to 
combine  all  the  elements  of  daring,  even  to  recklessness, 
coolness,  amid  the  most  trying  circumstances,  trained  judg- 
ment, a quick  eye,  a firm  hand,  untiring  muscle,  an  iron 


URIAH  P.  HARRIS. 


00 


constitution,  to  know  by  intuition  what  was  right,  and  the 
nerve  to  carry  it  out,  unheeding  the  clamor  of  the  populace 
or  the  intermeddling  of  those  who  held  quasi  power  in 
municipal  affairs. 

That  Uriah  P.  Harris  combined  in  a remarkable  degree 
these  rare  qualities,  his  repeated  election  to  the  office  of 
Chief  Engineer  (and  no  more  important  one  can  be  ad- 
duced), I think,  conclusively  proves.  In  this  even  the 
outcry  of  party  was  strangled,  and  though  there  were  plenty 
of  seekers  after  the  “loaves  and  fishes”  connected  with  it, 
yet  to  the  praise  of  Chicago  be  it  recorded,  the  better  judg- 
ment permitted  no  swelling  and  fury  of  political  waves  to 
turn  them  from  what  was  believed  their  best  interests  and 
the  most  certain  means  of  safety.  The  fiat  was  then,  what- 
ever it  may  be  now,  that  life  and  property,  when  weighed 
against  fire,  was  above  and  paramount  to  all  party  feeling. 

I think,  none  will  question  the  ability  with  which  Mr. 
Harris  managed  fires.  And  it  must  be  taken  into  consider- 
ation, how  often  and  much  he  was  crippled  for  want  of  nec- 
essary machines  and  an  adequate  supply  of  water.  Human 
muscle  is  not  as  tireless  as  steam,  human  nature  not  as  reli- 
able as  steel,  human  passions  have  no  safety-valve  that  can 
be  chained  down  and  control  them,  humanity  is  ever  subject 
to  the  overthrowing  powers  of  jealousy,  envy,  malice,  and  in- 
subordination. And  all  these  were  against  him,  at  least  in 
the  early  part  of  his  career,  and  I remember  well  a remark 
from  his  lips,  when  the  change  came  from  the  Volunteer  de- 
partment and  breath  of  fire,  lungs  of  steam  and  sinews  of 
iron  were  substituted;  when  horses  did  the  heavy  labor  of 
drawing  and  machinery  of  working — when  men  arrived  at 
the  scene  of  destruction  without  being  already  tired  out. 

“I  tell  you,”  he  said,  “steamers  don’t  get  exhausted  or 
drunk,  and  can  be  depended  on  every  time.” 

This  was  immediately  after  what  was  then  termed  “a 
great  fire”  (ah ! how  fearfully  the  memory  of  it  Avas  blotted 
out  at  a later  day,  when  a second  Sodom  swept  aAvay  acres 


o 


34  URIAH  P.  HARRIS. 

of  buildings,  and  in  a breath  crumbled  even  the  most  sub- 
stantial to  ashes  or  melted  them  as  wax  in  a thrice-heated 
furnace!)  in  Lake  street  (on  the  north  side  of  the  street 
between  Clark  and  Dearborn),  when  tired  nature  strove  to 
sustain  itself  by  stimulants,  and  there  was  left  behind  a sad, 
sad  record  of  destruction  and  death  — heavy  pecuniary 
losses  and  monumental  marbles  in  the  graveyard. 

Mr.  Harris  was  a man  of  intense  feelings  and  strong  pas- 
sions. They  were  the  requisite  fuel  to  drive  him  on  in  his 
chosen  career,  just  as  much  as  coal  and  wood  are  to  the 
locomotive.  Without  them  he  could  never  have  been  what 
he  was.  But  passion  with  him  was  no  long-lingering  feel- 
ing. It  would  have  been  impossible  for  him  to  have 
“nursed  wrath  to  keep  it  warm.”  He  was  too  great- 
hearted for  that.  Beside  his  inherent  love  of  mirth — his 
rollicking  nature  would  never  have  permitted  such  a thing. 
His  laugh  was  most  hearty  and  contagious;  his  play  bois- 
terous, and  the  very  corner-stone  of  his  being  was  socia- 
bility. Condemned  to  a hermit  life — sundered  from  genial 
companionship,  he  would  have  been  the  most  unhappy  of 
mortals  and  not  long  known  to  the  living.  Asa  Crusoe, 
he  would  not  have  survived  to  see  a “Friday,”  whether 
day  or  man!  Generous  he  was  to  a fault — far  too  much 
so  for  his  own  good  in  a pecuniary  point,  and  was  some- 
thing of  a gourmand  in  eating,  while  exceedingly  dainty  in 
taste  and  not  to  be  charged  with  gluttony.  Like  many 
men  of  his  mould,  he  was  tender-hearted; — unusually  so. 
Charity  with  him  was  more  than  a name — was  not  simply 
a spasm,  but  an  ever-living  and  breathing  reality,  and  tears 
in  the  eyes  of  woman,  no  matter  who  she  might  be,  ever 
caused  his  own  to  flow. 

Mr.  Harris  was  perhaps  too  much  of  the  order  of  Sans, 
Souci,  to  have  claimed  the  motto  of  Bayard,  but  to  that  can 
be  attributed  much  of  the  personal  popularity  which,  in 
connection  with  his  ability  in  his  chosen  profession,  en- 
abled him  so  long  to  retain  his  high  position  as  Chief. 


URIAH  P.  HARRIS. 


35 


His  friends  were  very  warm  and  lasting  ones.  He  threw 
his  whole  soul  into  his  intercourse,  as  indeed  he  did  into 
-everything  else — was  fond  even  to  extremes  of  the  amuse- 
ments that  go  very  far  toward  relieving  the  dullness  of  life 
— to  compensate  for  its  trials.  A good  horse  had  in  him  a 
good  friend  and  protector,  and  the  drama  an  ardent  ad- 
mirer. Indeed  he  was  enthusiastic  concerning  it,  and 
-chess  might  almost  have  been  called  a passion.  And, 
though  the  fact  is  probably  not  widely  known,  he  was  quite 
literary  in  his  tastes. 

His  faults,  whatever  they  may  have  been,  sprang  from 
an  excess  of  warmth  in  his  nature,  from  too  much  carbonic 
acid,  I might  say,  in  his  organization,  from  impulse  not  to 
be  resisted,  from  the  whip  and  spur  of  too  rapidly  bound- 
ing blood — never  from  premeditated  wrong.  No  one  ever 
yet  heard  so  hearty  and  spontaneous  a laugh  come  from  a 
villian’s  throat.  ' 

But  whatever  his  errors,  the  mantle  of  that  broad  charity, 
with  which  he  ever  so  liberally  shrouded  others,  should  be 
-extended  to  him.  His  virtues  counterbalance  them,  and  it 
has  been  well  written,  “none  are  perfect,  no  not  one.”  He 
has  passed  “beneath  the  veil,”  but  will  not  soon  be  for- 
gotten— cannot  be.  As  long  as  there  is  a Chicago  Fire 
Department,  he  will  be  remembered  with  pleasure.  What 
it  now  is  (without  detracting  one  iota  from  the  fame  of 
others),  he  assisted  greatly  to  make  it,  and  no  true  fireman 
will  hesitate  to  lay  a wreath  of  asphodel  upon  his  resting 
place. 


0 


• HENRY  B.  CLARKE. 


No  one  among  the  olden  time  hunters  will  ever  pass  the 
grave  of  Henry  B.  Clarke  save  reverently  and  with  uncov- 
ered head. 

Mr.  Clarke  was,  de  facto , one  of  the  “old  settlers.”  About 
forty  years  ago  he  erected  his  (then)  famous  mansion, 
dwarfing  all  others,  on  the  South  side  of  the  river,  and 
equalled  only  by  that  of  William  B.  Ogden  on  the  north — 
of  which  it  was  the  rival.  Its  cost  was  some  ten  thousand 
dollars — a mere  bagatelle  now,  but  at  the  time  was  looked 
upon  with  alarm,  and  designated  by  many  names,  the  most 
gentle  of  which  was,  perhaps,  “folly.”  The  building  was 
fashioned  after,  and  to  a great  degree  a reproduction  of, 
that  of  the  first  Mayor  of  Chicago  (William  B.  Ogden,, 
A.D.  1837),  with  broad,  pillared  porch;  inviting,  comfort- 
able, substantial,  and  a marked  object  in  the  almost  wilder- 
ness of  prairie. 

One  can  scarcely  conceive,  at  this  day,  the  enterprise 
and  energy  necessary  to  successfully  carry  out  such  an 
undertaking,  when  the  city  was  yet  in  its  swaddling  clothes, 
(with  only  about  two  thousand  inhabitants),  the  countxy 
unsettled,  the  trail  of  the  Indians  yet  unobliterated,  their 
corn  growing  at  “Wolf’s  Point,”  their  camp  fires  nightly 
burning,  and  their  war  cry  scarcely  stilled;  rvhen  skilled 
labor  was  difficult  to  command,  and  when  much  of  the 
interior  wood-work  had  to  be  transported  from  the  State  of 
New  York.  Indeed,  everything  taken  into  consideration, 
it  might  well  have  be.en  looked  upon  as  Herculanean  labor, 
and  one  bordering  even  upon  insanity.  But  the  South  side 


HENRY  B.  CLARKE. 


0/ 

gloried  in  it,  as  they  did  in  everything  that  tended,  in  the 
least,  to  break  the  somewhat  arrogant  power  of  the  North, 
and  lessen  its  prestige. 

When  Mr.  Clarke  builded  his  home  it  fronted  to  the 
East,  and  was  sentinelled  by  tall  Lombardy  poplars — strik- 
ing objects  amid  such  surroundings.  It  was  distant  a mile 
and  one-half  from  the  nearest  neighbor,  was  in  a streetless 
plain,  and  to  be  reached  only  by  the  road  along  the  lake 
shore — the  highway  from  the  Wabash.  And  it  is  recorded 
as  an  instance  of  his  goodness  of  heart,  and  thoughtfulness 
for  the  welfare  of  others,  that  he  every  night  hung  out  a 
lantern  to  guide  belated  and  perplexed  travellers,  and  save 
them  from  the  treacherous  and  almost  bottomless  sloughs. 

The  location  of  the  house  was  near  the  scene — a trifle  to 
the  south,  if  I remember  correctly — of  the  massacre  of 
1812,  and  amid  the  mimic  mountains  of  ever-shifting  sand 
rested  the  bones  of  the  soldiers  ruthlessly  slain  by  Indian 
treachery  and — why  should  it  not  be  written? — by  the 
obstinacy  and  incompetency  of  white  leaders. 

Not  here,  perhaps,  is  the  proper  place  to  discuss  the 
merits  of  that  fatal  evacuation  of  Fort  Dearborn;  but  a 
decade  and  a half  of  years  since  investigation  of  the  facts 
(after  gathering  the  most  authentic  information  possible) 
forced  this  conclusion : the  massacre  was  the  result  of  self- 
opinion, suspicion,  and  jealousy  of  inferiors,  the  destruction 
of  stores,  the  want  of  knowledge  of  the  Indian  character 
and  contempt  of  their  power.  But  whatever  the  cause,  its 
history  was  written  in  blood. 

Mr.  Clarke  combined  shrewdness  with  energy  of  char- 
acter. He  was  a partner  of  William  Jones  and  Byram 
King  (notable  names  in  the  early  history  of  the  Garden 
City)  in  the  Hardware  business  (on  South  Water  Street), 
and  a director  in  the  Chicago  Branch  of  the  State  Bank. 
In  his  later  years  he  withdrew  from  active  business  associa- 
tions, and  devoted  his  time  to  the  cultivation  of  the  soil  and 
to- the  sport  his  very  soul  loved — that  of  hunting;  having 


HENRY  B.  CLARKE. 


38 

for  companions  such  men  as  D.  D.  Stanton,  Harvey 
Blakesley,  L.  C.  Hugunin  (“Len”),  Ashley  Gilbert,  and 
others. 

Judging  from  his  treatment  of  me,  and  from  what  I heard 
from  others,  Mr.  Clarke  must  have  been  a remarkably 
genial  companion — one  with  command  of  self  and  one 
possessing  the  traits  of  character  that  make  men  loved 
while  living,  and  when  gone,  remembered  with  tender  re- 
gret. Certainly  his  friends  were  warm  ones,  though  I fancy 
the  number  admitted  to  the  very  hearth-stone  of  his  heart 
was  not  large.  But  those  who  enjoyed  the  privilege  re- 
mained firm  to  the  last — till,  in  1849,  the  blight  and  mil- 
dew and  doom  of  cholera  fell  upon  the  the  City  and  swept 
him  away. 

He  was  a man  of  strong  feelings,  and  remembered  injus- 
tice very  keenly.  His  early  life  had  been  passed  amid  the 
scenes  that  most  truly  “tried  men’s  souls,”  for  the  business 
battle  of  those  years  was  not  what  it  is  now — the  means  of 
transportation  but  as  a pony  express  to  the  countless  rail- 
way cars — or,  as  the  speed  of  a tortoise  to  that  of  a grey- 
hound. Money  was  scarce  and  hard  to  command;  credit 
sat  weeping  amid  the  ruined  altars  of  speculation,  and 
when  the  crash  of  1837  came,  Mr.  Clarke  did  not  escape 
being  crippled.  This,  and  subsequent  struggles,  I think, 
must  have  somewhat  distilled  the  gall  of  bitterness  into  his 
cup  of  life,  and  ever  after  shadowed  it.  But  he  was  the 
possessor  of  a 'brave  heart  and  high  moral  courage.  The 
latter  was  shown  upon  his  death-bed.  He  calmly  faced 
the  inevitable,  gave  minute  directions  about  his  temporal 
affairs,  and  designated  the  spot  of  his  burial  — that  he 
should  be  placed  beneath  a spreading  tree  upon  his  own 
ground,  and  not  consigned  to  the  cheerless  graveyard  where 
the  drifting  sand  hid  all  trace  one  day,  and  the  next  per- 
mitted the  wind  to  blow  upon  the  unearthed  coffin ! 

I know  not  if  tree  or  grave  remains  now,  so  completely 
has  the  city  swallowed  up  the  surroundings — so  much  has- 


HENRY  B.  CLARKE. 


39 


the  vandal  hand  of  “ improvement  ” obliterated  old  and 
cherished  land-marks.  But  I do  know  that  in  former  days 
the  grave  of  Henry  B,  Clarke  was  held  in  reverence  by 
old  settlers  and  huntsmen,  and  each  in  passing  laid  (at  least 
mentally)  a flower  upon  the  grassy  mound. 

No  man  in  whom  the  love  of  dogs  and  horses  is  as 
strongly  developed,  as  was  the  case  in  Mr.  Clarke,  can  ever 
be  otherwise  than  warm-hearted  and  full  of  tenderness; 
but  if,  at  times,  bitterness  fell  from  his  lips,  it  was  but  the 
natural  out-cropping  of  the  trials  through  which  he  had 
passed.  But  it  was  a growth  of  tares  that  could  never  up- 
root the  wheat — of  weeds  that  were  held  in  check  by  blos- 
soms of  humanity.  Had  he  been  thrown  upon  the  extreme 
frontier  he  would  have  been  foremost  in  the  ranks  of  pio- 
neers; had  he ‘ been  with  Boone  and  Simon  Kenton  they 
would  have  had  a brother  who  would  have  won  an  equal 
name,  and  never  shirked  trial  or  flinched  danger.  If  more 
lapped  in  City  life  he  would  have  sighed  for  gun  and  for 
freedom,  and  the  leaves  of  the  ledger  would  be  irksome, 
no  matter  what  the  profits.  As  it  was,  his  later  life  was  a 
happy  medium  between  the  two  extremes.  He  lived  upon 
•neutral  ground  between  civilization  and  wilderness — could 
turn  in  a moment  from  one  to  the  other,  and  when  not 
actually  engaged  in  agriculture  his  face  was  more  often  seen 
at  the  Calumet  and  the  O'Plain  than  in  Lake  Street,  and 
his  gun  more  often  heard  on  prairie  and  river  than  his  voice 
upon  the  public  square.  For  all  his  ambition  in  house- 
building he  loved  nature,  primeval,  better  than  right-angled 
streets  and  piles  of  brick  and  mortar;  and  believing,  to  the 
full,  in  the  creed  that  “God  made  the  country  and  man 
made  the  town,”  he  gladly  turned  his  back  upon 

“The  cold,  heartless  city,  with  its  forms 
'And  dull  routine ; its  artificial  manners, 

And  arbitrary  rules ; its  cheerless  pleasures, 

And  mirthless  masqueing.” 


40 


HENRY  B.  CLARKE. 


Mr.  Clarke  belonged  to  the  “old  stock”  that  are  rapidly 
fading  away  from  the  sight  of  men — but  not  to  be  forgotten. 
That  can  never  be.  Their  names  are  written  as  with  pen- 
cils of  steel  upon  tablets  of  marble — written  upon  all  of 
Chicago  as  indelibly  as  those  of  the  Indians  are  upon  head- 
land, river,  prairie,  and  waterfall.  Every  thought  of  the 
past  brings  them  back — repeoples  the  earth  again  with  the 
forms  long  since  laid  down  to  their  silent  rest.  A few — a 
very  few  remain,  with  the  furrows  plowed  by  years  upon 
their  faces,  and  “the  snow  that  falls  but  never  melts” 
lodged  in  their  scant  hair;  and  it  is  a duty,  as  it  should  be 
a pleasure,  not  only  for  their  children  and  children’s  chil- 
dren, but  of  all  in  Chicago  to  gather  and  garner  all  possi- 
ble reminiscences  against  the  time  when  their  history  will 
be  more  valuable  than  letters  of  gold. 

There  was  a manliness  about  these  old  Argonauts — a 
self-dependence,  an  iron  nerve,  and  unbending  front  of 
which  we  see  but  little  now.  Perhaps  it  is  not  called  out. 
They  were  men  to  be  relied  on  in  every  emergency,  and 
among  them  Henry  B.  Clarke  stood  high-placed,  and,  as  far 
as  I ever  knew,  with  unsullied  character.  He  never  (to  the 
best  of  my  recollection)  sought  or  held  public  office — a 
striking  commentary  upon  some  that  might  be  named,  and 
on  that  very  account  left  a purer  record.  He  never  could 
have  been  a sycophant  for  place  or  power — a Janus  for 
loaves  and  fishes;  and  while  he  might,  by  so  doing,  have 
left  more  property,  what  he  did  was  unmortgaged  to  politi- 
cal corruption  and  broken  promises.  From  his  life  and 
those  who  stood  shoulder  to  shoulder  with  him  in  the  ranks, 
the  “rings”  of  to-day  may  learn  a lesson  it  would  be  for 
their  benefit  to  ponder  and  remember,  if  they  aim  for  a 
higher  and  nobler  manhood.  Aye,  it  would  be  well  for  the 
younger  business  men  of  Chicago  to  go  to  such  graves  as 
that  of  Henry  B.  Clarke  and  learn  wisdom  from  their  dust 
and  ashes. 


4i 


SAMUEL  J.  LOWE. 


In  the  first  Directory  of  Chicago  (Robert  Fergus,  Compiler 
and  Publisher , A.D.  i8gg),  can  be  found  the  name  of  Sam- 
uel J.  Lowe,  “High  Constable  and  Deputy-Sheriff,”  show- 
ing that  he  was  a resident  at  an  early  day,  but  I have  no 
means  of  deciding  the  exact  time.  He  was  twice  elected 
Sheriff  (1842  and  1844),  and  subsequently  Justice  of  the 
Peace,  an  office,  I think,  he  held  at  the  time  of  his  decease. 
He  was  twice  married,  and  a number  of  his  children  still 
survive. 

Mr.  Lowe  was  of  English  parentage — and  he  was  born,  if 
recollection  serves  me  rightly,  in  the  mother  country;  and, 
though  thoroughly  Americanized  in  feelings,  retained  some 
of  the  traits  that  mark  the  subjects  of  Queen  Victoria  to 
the  end.  This,  however,  was  only  in  manner,  accent,  and 
idiom.  There  was  nothing  of  worship  for  the  crown  re- 
maining. And — if  indeed  he  had  ever  been  much  tinct- 
ured in  that  direction,  which  is  exceedingly  doubtful  in  my 
mind — all  of  early  prejudice,  and  love,  and  reverence  for 
royalty  had  been  obliterated.  He  was  a democrat  at  heart 
as  well  as  in  name — a strong  partisan;  and  the  “divine 
right,”  according  to  his  belief,  was  vested  in  the  people 
and  not  in  kings — the  vox  popiili  paramount  to  the. single 
wall  of  man  or  woman.  In  fact  he  had  little  patience  with 
any  who  boasted  the  superiority  of  England  in  any  respect, 
and  could  scarcely  tolerate  them  at  his  own  table,  although 
one  of  the  most  hospitable  of  men. 

One  instance  of  this  came  under  my  own  immediate 
observation. 


42 


SAMUEL  J.  LOWE. 


He,  like  all  Englishmen  (and  are  not,  “Yankees”  the 
same  if  blessed  with  the  slightest  epicurean  taste?)  was 
fond  of  roast  beef,  and  he  was  a good  judge  of  the  article 
in  its  primitive  state,  and  knew  when  it  was  properly 
cooked.  At  dinner  one  day,  at  his  house,  were  some  gen- 
uine specimens  of  the  newly  arrived  John  Bull — sex,  mascu- 
line; species,  cockney — who,  ignoring  the  etiquette  and  po- 
liteness of  the  occasion,  indulged  in  egotistical  bombast 'as 
to  their  native  country,  and  were  loud  in  condemnation  of 
everything  this  side  of  the  water.  Mr.  Lowe  heard  them 
in  silence,  though  rising  color  told  how  unpalatable  was 
the  theme  to  him.  Under  other  circumstances  he  might 
not  have  borne  so  patiently.  In  the  role  of  host  he  was- 
fettered,  and  endeavored  again  and  again  to  turn  the  tide 
of  conversation,  but  without  success.  And  everything 
came  in  for  censure,  from  the  President  and  Cabinet  down 
even  to  food,  and  the  wholesale  declaration  was  made  (and 
that  in  the  face  of  as  prime  a piece  of  beef  as  Straun  ever 
fed  and  “Bill  Gallagher”  ever  butchered,  and  which  it 
would  have  been  very  difficult  to  duplicate  in  any  market 
in  the  world)  “that  there  was  nothing  fit  to  heat  in  this  ’ere 
blarsted  country,”  or  words  to  that  effect. 

Quick  almost  as  a lightning  flash  the  hot  blood  surged  to- 
the  very  temples  of  Mr.  Lowe.  Not  only  his  adopted 
country,  but  himself  and  his  table,  had  been  insulted,  and 
by  those  partaking  of  his  kindly  proffered  hospitality;  and 
before  second-thought  came  to  his  rescue  he  answered  and 
asked:  “Why,  then,  in  the  name  of  heaven,  didn’t  you  stay 

in  England?” 

That  he  regretted  it  afterward  I know,  although  the  re- 
proof was  richly  merited,  and  he  felt  he  had  lowered  himself 
to  their  level.  However  it  mattered  little.  They  were  too 
thick-skinned  to  feel  his  virtuous  indignation,  and  if  the 
shaft  was  felt  at  all,  consoled  themselves  with  a double 
allowance  of  the  beef  that  “was  not  fit  to  eat,”  and  which 
was  such  a toothsome  morsel  as  they  had,  probably,  never 
e asted  unon  before  in  their  lives. 


SAMUEL  J.  LOWE. 


43 


And  here  (though  out  of  place)  I cannot  refrain  from  in- 
troducing an  anecdote  of  Henry  G.  Hubbard,  as  it  bears 
directly  upon  the  subject — he  sharing  with  Mr.  Lowe  his 
disgust  of  such  ill-breeding  and  ignorant  assumption,  and 
especially  as  it  was  first  told  me  by  the  latter. 

Mr.  H.  G.  Hubbard  was  dining  at  the  City  Hotel  (trans- 
formed from  stores  by  the  Hon.  Francis  C.  Sherman  “be- 
cause they  were  built  too  far  from  trade!”  and  subsequently 
rebuilded  and  rebaptised  as  the  “Sherman  House”)  with 
some  of  his  friends,  when  a party  of  English  (not  English 
gentlemen  and  ladies — very  far  from  it)  who  were  seated 
opposite  indulged  in  loud-mouthed  vituperation  of  all  things 
American.  Mr.  Hubbard  listened  quietly  for  a time  and 
then  with  straight  face,  but  eyes  twinkling  with  mischief, 
began  to  describe  to  one  of  his  friends  (but  intended 
for  other  ears)  the  severe  trials  of  the  early  settlers  of  Chi- 
cago— how  they  had  to  go  out  upon  the  prairie,  and  dig 
under  the  snow  for  old  buffalo  bones,  left  by  the  Indians 
the  previous  summer,  to  make  soup  to  sustain  their  lives, 
and  much  more  to  the  same  effect. 

“’Orrible!  ’orrible!”  was  the  comment  of  the  foreigners. 

Mr.  Hubbard  seeing  that  the  bait  had -been  swallowed,* 
enlarged  his  stories,  and  as  the  •vulgarity  of  “Western  peo- 
ple” had  been  harped  upon,  wound  up  by  calling  aloud  to 
the  waiter  who  was  serving  pudding : 

“Here,  bring  me  about  a quart  of  that  poultice  and  put 
on  plenty  of  the  ointment!” 

That  was  enough  for  John  Bull.  They  left  in  a hurry, 
and  Chicago,  as  reported  by  them,  must  have  had  a hard 
name.  But  could  they  have  heard  the  explosions  of  laugh- 
ter that  followed,  and  have  known  Henry  G.  Hubbard  as 
did  the  others  at  the  table,  they  might  have  been  a trifle 
sceptical  as  to  the  information  they  had  put  doAvn  as  “per- 
fectly reliable!” 

That  Mr.  Lowe  possessed  more  than  usual  qualifications 
for  Sheriff  will  not  be  questioned  by  any  one  familiar  with. 


44 


SAMUEL  J.  LOWE. 


his  character.  He  had  firmness,  coolness  under  the  most 
trying  circumstances,  a quick,  working,  and  decisive  mind; 
was  fertile  in  expedients  and  endowed  with  honesty  that 
nothing  could  shake. 

If  specific  proof  of  the  latter  were  needed  it  could  be 
found  in  his  being  among  the  first,  if  not  the  very  first, 
selected  to  guard  the  specie  while  in  transitu  from  the 
Government  Land  Office  at  Chicago  to  St.  Louis.  Of  the 
danger,  as  well  as  the  responsibility  of  the  undertaking,  at 
•such  an  early  day,  when  the  means  of  conveyance  was 
simply  stage  coaches,  often  floundering  through  muddy 
prairie  and  “stuck”  in  muddy  sloughs,  those  living  in 
Illinois  at  the  time  will  need  no  testimony.  Organized 
bands  of  counterfeiters,  horse  thieves,  and  desperate  men, 
wersed  in  crime  of  every  character,  abounded,.  The  “Reg- 
ulators” had  at  best  been  only  “scotched,”  not  killed.  For 
every  head  of  the  serpent  crushed  another  was  reared. 
The  “Davenport  murderers”  were  in  their  glory  — the 
“ Driscolls  ” flourishing  and  banded  for  evil  with  their 
brothers  in  infamy  throughout  the  wide  west.  Every  grove 
from  Inlet  and  Paw  Paw  to  the  Wabash  might  have  been 
said  to  contain  caches  of  stolen  goods  and  horses,  the 
cellar  of  many  a tavern,  the  bones  of  murdered  men,  and 
the  “Hubbard  Trail”  was  not  unmarked  by  blood.  In 
every  respect  it  needed  men  of  inflexible  nerve  and  the 
most  sterling  honesty,  for  such  an  undertaking  as  the  trans- 
portation of  such  a tempting  lure,  and  to  be  among  the 
number  chosen  was  “proof  as  strong  as  holy  writ”  that  the 
man  was  looked  upon  by  his  fellows  as  the  right  one  in  the 
right  place. 

And  so  it  was  with  Samuel  J.  Lowe  in  all  his  business 
transactions,  whether  public  or  private.  If  as  Justice  of  the 
Peace  he  ever  erred  in  giving  judgment,  the  fault  arose  not 
from  a want  of  determination  to  do  right  at  what  ever  cost 
— no  matter  who  was  to  be  mulcted,  but  from  a failure  to 
•comprehend  the  intricate  manipulation  of  keen-witted  law- 


SAMUEL  J.  LOWE. 


45 


yers,  the  wilful  perversion  of  evidence,  the  almost  impossi- 
bility to  draw  the  line  of  demarkation  between  truth  and 
falsehood.  But  he  never  was  blinded  by  gold.  Had  he 
been,  he  would  have  died  a richer  man — have  left  per- 
chance a more  towering  marble  above  his  grave,  but  a less 
shining  record  upon  it. 

At  the  time  he  was  Sheriff  the  office  was  the  reverse  of  a 
bed  of  roses.  It  was  not  a very  lucrative  one — the  jail  was 
an  old  log  building — eternal  vigilance  was  truly  the  price 
of  the  safety  of  the  prisoners — the  city  had  police  that  were 
little  better  than  a farce — was  a chosen  refuge  for  scamps 
— rail-roads  were  in  their  infancy — the  State  Prison  was  at 
Alton,  and  sentenced  men  had  to  be  taken  thither  by 
stage,  with  daring  confederates  watchful  and  ever  ready  to- 
aid  them  to  escape,  even  at  the  cost  of  bloodshed;  the 
journey  was  long — the  roads  (spring  and  fall)  muddy,  run- 
ning through  a sparcely  settled  country,  and  the  price  for 
their  transportation  did  not  admit  a plethora  of  guards. 
But  the  record  of  Samuel  J.  Lowe  challenges  the  assertion 
that  he  did  not  ever-faithfully  keep  watch  and  ward — that 
he  failed  to  safely  deliver,  within  the  grim  walls  of  Alton, 
every  one  entrusted  to  his  care. 

The  starting  of  a lot  of  prisoners  for  State’s  Prison,  as- 
then  manipulated,  would  be  a curiosity  in  the  Garden  City 
now.  Nearly  opposite  the  jail  (on  Randolph  Street,  be- 
tween Clark  and  LaSalle)  stood  the  old,  smoke  and  dirt 
begrimmed  shop  of  “Jake  Lower,  Blacksmith.”  (I  give 
the  name  from  memory  and  spell  it  phonetically,  and  may 
be  wrong  in  both,  though  I think  not.)  When  the  time 
came  for  departure,  the  stages  of  Frink  and  Walker  were 
drawn  up  before  the  apology  for  a prison,  the  doomed  men 
brought  out  handcuffed  and  with  heavy  sackles  upon  their 
ancles.  Then  “Jake”  appeared  upon  the  scene  and  rivetted 
a bar  of  iron  from  one  of  the  double  fastenings  to  the 
other,  and  the  men  were  bundled  into  the  stage  land  whirled 
away  to  punishment  under  the  care  of  keepers,  the  crack- 


4 6 SAMUEL  J.  LOWE. 

ing  of  the  driver’s  whip  and  the  shouts  and  cheers  of  the 
gamins. 

In  this  connection,  I might  add  that  his  official  duty 
forced  him  to  be  present  at  and  take  part  in  the  execution 
of  John  Stone  for  the  murder  of  Mrs.  Thompson  (July  io, 
1840),  and,  that,  though  the  circumstances  were  particu- 
larly atrocious — the  doom  a just  one — the  culprit  hardened 
and  ribald — yet  the  inner  heart  of  Mr.  Lowe  would  gladly 
have  turned  him  aside  from  seeing  the  death  agony,  even 
while  his  high  sense  of  duty  led  to  unflinchingly  stand  upon 
the  scaffold. 

The  love  of  his  adopted  country  was  very  strong  in  Mr. 
Lowe.  It  was  shadowed  forth  during  the  Mexican  war, 
and  had  he  lived  at  the  time  of  the  “late  unpleasantness” 
he  would  have  thrown  all  his  influence  into  the  scale  for 
the  Union,  and  given  liberally  of  his  means.  At  one  time 
(in  the  City  of  New  York)  I believe  he  was  a member  of  a 
military  organization,  and  his  tastes  ran  strongly  in  that 
direction. 

Circumstances  that  could  not  be  avoided,  duties  and 
family  cares  that  must  ever  be  paramount  in  the  heart  of 
any  true  man,  kept  him  from  following  the  bent  of  his 
inclination,  and  going  to  the  Mexican  Avar.  But  he  could 
compensate  for  his  absence  by  giving  of  his  children,  and 
there  Avas  no  mawkish  sensibility  about  his  so  doing.  Two 
at  least  of  them  burned  to  “revel  in  the  halls  of  the  Mont- 
■ezumas,”  and  he  bade  them  go  and  furnished  the  means  for 
horses  and  all  “the  pomp  and  glory  of  war.” 

“But,”  said  one,  “in  case  our  army  should  be  beaten, 
driven  back,  and  Ave  forced  to  retreat,  what  then?” 

“Then,”  was  the  reply,  and,  though  jokingly  uttered, 
intended  in  all  its  soundness,  “then,  if  you  come  to  Chi- 
cago, ride  through  it  as  fast  as  you  can  run  your  horse,  and 
don’t  ever  stop  where  I will  see  you  again  l” 

And  such  words  Avere  not  idle  from  his  lips.  With  Jack- 
son,  I take  it,  he  would  have  indeed  stood  as  a “stone 


SAMUEL  j.  LOWE. 


47 


wall” — with  his  countrymen  at  Waterloo,  he  would  have 
been  among  the  last  Wellington  would  ever  have  been 
•called  to  blush  for. 

I have  spoken  of  his  being  a man  of  nerve,  firmness,  and 
coolness,  and  am  confident  he  would  have  walked  to  the 
■scaffold  rather  than  given  up  a principle.  Though  far  from 
being  an  athlete — not  being  above  the  medium  size,  and 
ungifted  with  any  remarkable  physical  power,  yet  he  never 
■shrank  from  an  encounter,  if  necessary,  and  in  more  than 
one  instance,  to  my  knowledge,  arrested  breakers  of  the  law 
who  had  “whipped  out”  and  defied  others.  This  his  own 
■self-command  and  the  rare  faculty  of  controlling  and  intim- 
idating others  enabled  him  to  do,  and  looking  back  through 
the  data  of  memory,  I fail  to  find  a single  instance  where 
he  resorted  to  weapons,  though  the  necessities  of  his  situa- 
tion sometimes  made  it  obligatory  upon  him  to  carry  them. 
Indeed,  I remember  to  have  frequently  heard  him  speak 
scornfully  of  others  who  did  so  and  made  a boast  of  it, 
and  no  more  humane  man  in  the  treatment  of  prisoners 
could  have  been  found,  even  while  exercising  all  of  firmness 
and  permitting  nothing  “but  what  the  law  allowed  and  the 
court  adjudged.” 

Of  these  things  peculiar  family  associations,  and  the 
eritrce  of  his  house  at  all  times  and  at  all  hours  gave  me  a 
better  opportunity  than  another  to  judge,  for  Mr.  Lowe  was 
a modest,  reticent  man,  quiet  in  his  speech  and  manner, 
and  I never  heard  anything  boastful  fall  from  his  lips.  To 
know  him,  one  must  have  been  with  him — to  have  read  his 
•character  aright,  have  watched  the  details  of  his  actions, 
and  sought  the  mainspring  of  his  motives — have  looked  at 
that  which  was  hidden  rather  than  at  that  which  was  re- 
vealed. Perhaps — and  there  are  many  who  so  judge  of 
men — his  penmanship  was  a true  index  to  his  character. 
It  was  rather  stiff  than  graceful — precise  to  Quakerism — 
neat  to  a fault  and  legible  as  the  cleanest  cut  type — was,  as 
might  be  said,  without  a blot — was  in  perfect  keeping  with 


43 


SAMUEL  J.  LOWE. 


the  man.  To  compare  it  with  the  fashionable  handwriting 
of  the  present  would  be  to  compare  the  beautiful  Roman 
simplicity  of  these  pages  with  the  fanciful  fonts  that  are 
elaborated  almost  to  unintelligibility — and,  if  anything  Mr. 
Lowe  detested,  it  was  “flourish.” 

In  the  circle  of  his  associates  Mr.  Lowe  was  noted  for 
his  hospitality.  A courteous  and  genial  welcome  met  all 
who  visited  him,  and  though  naturally  somewhat  retiring, 
yet  when  business  cares  were  thrown  aside  there  were  few 
more  companionable  men  to  be  found.  He  was  a mem- 
ber of  the  Masonic  fraternity,  and  was  always  a welcome 
guest  at  the  St.  George  and  Yorkshire  dinners.  He  was  a 
regular  attendant,  if  not  a member,  of  the  Episcopal 
Church. 

Death  canie  in  the  midst  of  his  usefulness,  and  while  he 
was  still  a young  man — came  at  a time  when  he  could  but 
illy  be  spared  by  his  family — came  in  a terribly  painful 
manner.  He  bore  all  patiently  and  bravely,  and  left 
behind  a name  that  will  be  remembered  and  honored. 

Save  his  own  immediate  family  no  one  saw  his  eyes 
close,  save  Darius  Knights  and  myself.  It  was  a frying, 
terribly  painful  scene.  His  disease  was  said  to  have  been 
the  same  as  that  of  Napoleon,  and  the  “Hero  of  St.  Helena” 
could  not  have  more  bravely  faced  the  Destroyer,  and,  as 
far  as  mortal  eyes  could  judge,  with  a more  trustful  heart 
and  firm  belief  that  for  his  soul  the  golden  gates  were  al- 
ready ajar. 

May  we  sleep  as  well  when  for  us  the  summons  comes. 


- 


V 


FERGUS’ 


POPULAR  PUBLICATIONS. 


1 ANNALS  OF  CHICAGO:  A Lecture  delivered 

before  the  Chicago  Lyceum,  January’ 21,  1840,  by  Jos.  N.  Balesfcier. 
Republished  from  the  original  edition  of  1840,  with  an  Introduction, 
written  by  the  author  in  1S76,  and,  also,  a Review  of  the  Lecture, 
published  in  the  Chicago  Tribune  in  1872.  Price,  25  cents. 

2 FERGUS’  DIRECTORY  OF  THE  CITY  OF 

CHICAGO,  1839;  with  City  and  County  Officers,  Churches,  Public 
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of  the  First  City  Flection  (Tuesday,  May  2d,  1837);  and,  also,  List 
of  Purchasers  of  Lots  in  Fort  Dearborn  Addition,  the  No.  of  the 
Lots,  and  the  Prices  Paid  (1S39).  Compiled  by  Robert  Fergus. 
Price,  50  cents. 

3 THE  LAST  OF  THE  ILLINOIS,  and  a Sketch 

of  the  Pottawatomie:-:  Re  id  before  the  Chicago  Historical  Society, 

December  13th,  iSyo;  also, 

ORIGIN  OF  THE  PRAIRIES:  Read  before  the  Ottawa 
Academy  of  Natural  Sciences,  December  30th,  1869,  by  Hon.  John 
Dean  Caton',  LL.D.,  laic  Chief-Justice  of  Illinois.  Price,  25  cents. 

4 AN  HISTORICAL  SKETCH  OF  THE  EARLY 

MOVEMENT  IN  ILLINOIS  LOR  THE  LEGALIZATION  OF 
SLAVERY:  Read  at  the  Annual  Meeting -of  the  Chicago  Historical 
Society,  December  5,  1864,  by  Hosi.  Wm.  H.  Brown,  Lx-Prcsidcnt 
of  the  Society.  Price,  25  cents. 

5 BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES  OF  SOME  OF 

THE  EARLY  SETTLERS  OF  THE  CITY  OF  CHICAGO. 
To  be  issued  in  monthly  parts.  Part  I.  contains  Sketches  of  Hon. 
S.  Lisle  Smith,  George  Davis,  Dr.  Philip  Maxwell,  John  |.  Ilrown, 
Richard  L.  Wilson,  Colonel  Lewis  C.  Kerchival,  Uriah  P.  Harris, 
Henry  B.  Clarke,  and  Sheriff  Samuel  J.  Lowe.  Price,  25  cents. 

6 BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES  OF  SOME  OF 

THE  EARLY  SETTLERS  OF  THE  CITY  OF  CHICAGO. 
To  be  issued  in  monthly  parts.  Part  II.  will  contain  Sketches  of  \V. 
11.  Brown,  Esq.,  B-  W.  Raymond,  Esq.,  J.  Y.  Scammon,  Esq.,  Chas. 
Walker,  Esq.,  Thomas  Church,  Esq.  Price,  25  cents.  # 

7 EARLY  CHICAGO:  A LECTURE  DELIVERED 

in  the  Sunday  Course,  at  McCormick’s  Hall,  May  7th,  1876.  By 
Hon.  John  Wentworth.  Price,  25  cents. 

Sent  on  receipt  of  Price , by  the  Publishers. 

FERGUS  PRINTING  CO., 

244-8  Illinois  Street,  - Chicago. 


